Losing My Religion
by Lexikal
Summary: Spencer Reid, 10, is removed from his father's "care" after being violently attacked and is fostered by his old mentor, Jason Gideon. This is a sequel to "That's me in the corner". Features child abuse, do not read if underage. Please review!
1. Chapter 1: What sort of injuries?

**Title:** Losing My Religion by Lexikal (_Hanniballexster on live journal_)  
**Rating:** M for graphic violence against a child and language.  
**Fandom:** Criminal Minds  
**Summary:** After two years away from his father and his father's violent rages, Spencer Reid, now ten, is returned home. Spencer has changed... but has William Reid?

**Author's Note:** This story (chapter one) was originally published on my live journal account as a single story under the title "_Losing Myself_". However, after writing "_That's me in the corner_", I decided to write a sequel, and realized that this story would make an excellent first chapter for the sequel (I realize that "_That's me in the corner_" only has one chapter, but this will have at least two chapters).

**This story is**_** not**_** chapter two to "**_**That's me in the corner**_**", but rather, a sequel to that story. **In this story, two years have passed since Reid was removed and he is back at home after spending two years away from his father's physical and mental abuse. However, when he returns home, the abuse starts up with a vengeance. _**The first chapter contains a fairly graphic description of physical abuse, so please take care/don't read if that will upset you.**_ I have made some minor changes to the first chapter, so for anybody who may have read this on my lj account, no, you're not imagining changes. I want to keep this M, and make sure it doesn't accidentally leak into the MA category...

* * *

"Get the _hell_ back here, boy." His voice is gruff, hoarse. _Drunk_. Reid, 10, stops in his tracks. He's been home a month. He's been hit three times already. Nothing bad, not _really_. A back-handed slap across the face, a shove into the wall.

His hand is on the handle of the door. He was _almost_ gone. Maybe the idiot in front of him won't remember. He could be having another one of his walking black outs. Reid eyes the bottles... weeks worth of empty vodka bottles. His father pours another shot, throws it back, then decides screw it, he'll drink straight from the bottle. His eyes are blurry, his words slurred.

"What are you waitin fer? _I said get your ass back over here_!" Reid waits a moment. Actually, _wait_ is the wrong word. His legs simply will..._not_...move.

"_NOW_!" Head bent, he marches over. Stands in front of the drunken man that provided him with half his DNA.

"I did them, Dad. The chores. They're done."

His father snorts. He looks amused. "Chores... let your crazy mother handle 'em. I don't care about..." A strange look lights up his eyes. Spencer's father has just had a doozy of an idea, and from the look in his eyes, it's not a good one. Not for Spencer. The boy feels suddenly trapped, more trapped than before. That look, he's seen it before.

"_Wha' ez-atlally didja doooo_?" Definitely wasted. Reid's mind goes blank. Chores. He did chores. But the man wants_ specifics_.

"Just stuff that needed..."

"I asked you what you did, faggot!" There is a loud smash and Reid wearily realizes his father chucked the bottle at him. It missed his head by half an inch and smashed on the floor. There were still a few shots of liquor left and the man rages. "Look wha' you made me do now!"

He rises from his reclining chair and stumbles towards the child. Spencer Reid cowers. He knows, at ten, all the stats for child abuse. Knows that his father is emotionally and physically abusive. His mother is neglectful, but not just to him... she is schizophrenic. She neglects_ herself_. That's why...

"I'm waiting, you little shit." Spencer forces himself to swallow. Chores. Right. _Specifics_.

"The dishes. Took out some garbage. Some ironing... the clothes were clean but Mom left them out and they got all wrinkled and..."

"_Ironing_?" The man's eyes harden into little pin pricks of hate. "IRONING?" Spencer steps back, ready to bolt. He has his shoes and jacket on, his house key in the pocket, Gideon's card in his jacket pocket. He _can_ bolt. So he _does_.

But the man- his _father_- is faster. Maybe the drunken stupor was partially an act because his father is on him without warning, quickly and deftly, and the boy can't breathe. The hands around his neck are simultaneously choking and dragging him at the same time. He feels himself pulled across the floor, into the laundry room.

The journey takes forever. The journey takes no time at all. The iron is still on, still hot. Not super hot but... Spencer begins to panic.

His father pulls the boy by the hair and throws him against the wall. He feels himself, as if from very far away, looking down on the scene. Dissociation, that's what the shrinks call it. That's what Gideon would call this. People that experience Near Death Experiences report similar out of body experiences. It's most likely a survival mechanism, thousands and thousands of years of evolution to stun an animal before it dies... Spencer thinks all of this within seconds, because his father is holding the iron. He hasn't plugged it in but he's wrapped the cord around his hand and the iron dangles from his hand like a mace.

This is not good.

Spencer struggles to his feet, but when he was thrown there was an unnerving noise, a strange snap.

Broken leg. He glances down. Blood is seeping through his jeans, the blood is spreading quickly. He tries to move. Can't.

Compound fracture most likely then, maybe more serious, judging by the pain and the blood. He can't see it yet, doesn't know if he wants to, when the first blow hits him.

It's unlike anything he has ever felt before. He's felt punches and belts, even wrenches, anything handy... had bottles smashed over a skull containing his genius brain. But this hits him in the chest and he screams and doubles over. There is another blow, this time to the bloody leg and his ears are ringing, his heart is racing.

The world tilts.

The third blow catches him in the head and he sees stars. Far away he can hear himself begging. _Stop. Stop. You'll kill me. You're going to kill me._ But it continues, and he knows he will die.

_Stop. Please stop._

The fourth, or maybe the fifth blow hits him in the face. Everything goes black.

* * *

He wakes up in a bed in a hospital room. There is an IV in his hand. His leg is already in a cast and lies uselessly underneath the covers. He knows, without looking, that they've put a Foley in to monitor his urine output.

The door opens and he cringes, but it's just a doctor. A woman doctor. She has a clipboard with her. She smiles at him and sits down in a chair. He feels dazed and foggy and thirsty. Overwhelmed.

"Hi Spencer. My name is Maria." He nods. There will be the inevitable questions. He can't see his face but, even with the pain meds- and he knows from the foggy way everything looks that he's on something for pain- that he's probably a real mess. His lip feels swollen and he sucks on it, can feel and taste dried blood and stitches. He reaches up to his head and fingers gauze bandaging.

"Your Mom brought you in. She said your father did this to you." Okay, cat's out of the bag now. Spencer waits for the doctor to say more. When she doesn't, he finally nods.

"What... what _sort_ of injuries did I sustain?" He asks softly, staring at her bleakly. The woman seems a little surprised by his phrasing, his maturity. She looks hesitant, not sure how to answer.

The child in front of her is so small, so frail... even for a ten year old. He can't see himself, but his skull was fractured and he almost bled out several times. The broken leg severed his femoral artery. She is amazed he is talking, let alone speaking like a little adult. Devoid of emotion, though.

She stares at him carefully, at the shattered cheekbones, the missing teeth, the stitches and the broken nose... the bruising is heavy and extensive. His face is more purple-black than flesh coloured.

"Well... your leg was _broken_..."

"Compound fracture?"

"Um... yes. The bone was protruding..." she stops, wondering why she is telling the kid all this. He asked, and his eyes are pleading with her. He wants... maybe _needs_... to know. "But when your femur was broken, it cut into what's called the femoral artery..."

"You obviously fixed it, or I wouldn't be here." It's not a question.

"Yes, we had to operate; on your leg, and on the artery in your leg. We put some screws in the bone. Also, your _head_... you had a skull fracture and internal pressure and bleeding..."

"You shaved my head." Again, not a question.

The woman exhales, suddenly feeling drained. The boy knows too much, is too accepting. It would've been easier if he'd just cried or cringed but this calm acceptance is somehow worse.

"We had to open up your skull to reduce the bleeding in your brain."

"A craniotomy." Spencer Reid says dully, and nods, as if he is having a private conversation with himself as well as her. He's quiet for a moment, his tongue snaking around the inside of his mouth. He licks his lips and looks up at her.

"Some of my teeth are gone. They were knocked out, I guess. I probably swallowed them."

"That's pretty easy to fix, Spencer. A dentist can put new teeth in, screw them right into the jaw bone and..."

The boy looks suddenly afraid, which is odd considering his previous detachment. Then, suddenly, she understands.

He still has his original leg, his original skull, his original brain. They're injured, but they're still _his_. His teeth are GONE.

"They were my permanent teeth." Reid says mournfully and looks away, looking at some distant point out the window. He glances back after a moment. "You took photographs, didn't you... of the injuries. _For the police_?"

She nods. Obviously this is not the first time this child has been physically battered... if for no other reason than he knows how the system works too well.

"Was I naked? When you took the photos?" An odd question. She stares at the boy, her concern growing, but his expression gives her nothing.

"We had to cut your clothing off in the ER due to your injuries... your pants..."

He is fidgeting now, distressed.

"Spencer... is there something you would like to tell me?"

They'd checked the kid over for any sort of obvious sexual trauma, and had found nothing. But not all sexual abuse left obvious physical indications.

The boy looks at her with pleading eyes. The eyes are the only parts of his face that still resemble a human face, even though one of the corneas was detached. He didn't ask about that his eyes, though, and she can't lay it on him. Not right now.

"Spencer, why are you suddenly so upset?" If she'd thought there might be a further disclosure of abuse she would have sent in the resident kiddie shrink to talk to him.

"Those were my_ favourite_ pants!" For the first time, he sounds like an average ten year old. Scared, protesting... but it makes no sense. He was bleeding to death. No, the kid was-_ is_- scared by the idea of being _naked_. Stripped.

She has seen cases like this before, knows the warning signs.

"_Spencer_..."

"I only ever get hit... _okay_?" His words are slurred, probably from the pain meds. 12 hours of surgery and the kid woke up after 4 hours in recovery. It shouldn't be possible. Hell, he shouldn't even be alive.

"Spencer, if your dad ever hurt you in some other way..."

The machine recording his pulse is beeping hectically now. "He didn't, okay? He didn't! I just don't like people taking photos of me..." He stops dead in his tracks and closes his eyes.

"I don't feel _good_. I'm_ thirsty_. Where is my _mom_?"

"Your mom is down at the police station." Oh boy. Now comes the rough part. Well... rougher part.

"My _dad _though... he's in jail, _right_?" The boy's voice is a squeak.

Shit. _Shit._ Sometimes the system really sucks. "Spencer, do you know what_ schizophrenia_ is?"

"_Yes_."

"Your Mom... she has a _lot_ of problems... you know that, right?"

"She forgets to get out of bed some days." The boy says tiredly, sighing. "_So_?"

"Spencer, your dad is claiming he never touched you... _hit_ you. He says your mom hurt you."

"That's a lie!" The heart rate monitor is beeping quicker now, again. 100 beats a minute. 105. 110...

"I know._ I believe you_. But the thing is... your dad has an alibi... an_ excuse_... for where he was when you were hurt. He says he was with some friends, and they are backing up his story."

"But he _wasn't_!"

The boy's eyes are darting around the room now, as if looking for intruders. Monsters. _Shit._

"Spencer, there is a policeman outside your door. Nobody but a nurse or doctor or someone authorized by the hospital can come in here."

"The _window_..." But the boy, even terrified, realises the faulty logic there. They are on the eighth floor.

"Is this paediatrics?"

"It's the Intensive Care Ward."

"But I'm _fine_ now." His face is nearly black, he's vomited twice, had two seizures- one in the ambulance, one on the OR table, shortly before flat-lining. He's anything but _fine._

"You're doing _really _well, that's true. But we just want to keep an eye on you..."

"After... when I go home..._he'll_ be there?"

She can't tell him he might not be going home. Not for a while. The papers are already signed, the social workers have put in the calls. The kid's going to a foster home.

"You won't be going home, Spencer. Not until we figure this thing out. Not until we can be certain you'll be safe at home." Jesus Christ, the kid almost died. Was almost murdered. And she has a feeling, not for the first time, either.

"But my mom... she can't take care of herself. _She needs me_." The boy can't turn over. There are too many wires and tubes all over his body and his leg is in traction. But she knows he would turn over if he could. Away from her. To face the wall. His eyes are tearing up, his lip is shaking. He's going to cry.

She wants to hug him, but there is nowhere she would feel comfortable even touching. His entire body is bruised, though not as bad as his face. The kid didn't mention the burns. All over his back and upper legs. Cigarette burns. A few fresh ones, so many old ones.

"Spencer, your father could've killed you today." It's out before she can take it back and she wants to kick herself. He's a little boy for crying out loud... but it's hard to keep that in mind because his voice and mannerisms and facial expressions are so... _advanced_. But he is still just a_ child_.

"He's not a _monster_. He's not a serial killer, or a sociopath... he has problems with impulse control and alcohol. _Anger_."

_Serial killer_? Where did that comparison come from?

"I'm thirsty," Spencer says then, sighing heavily, his voice rasping.

She pours him some water and puts the straw to his lips, wincing in sympathy as he takes it. Guzzles too fast. But she doesn't have the heart to tell him to slow down or take the water away. He smacks his lips when he is done, closes his eyes. If she didn't know he was breathing, she'd think she was looking at a corpse, he is so battered, so _still_.

"Sometimes I have _dreams_," His voice is slurred; the morphine is taking its toll, "of my teeth falling out. But they weren't _just_ dreams. It actually_ happened_. They're _gone_."

She pulls a chair over to his bed and sits down, takes his good hand, the one without the IV line. He doesn't pull away.

"I can _never_ get them back. They were my permanent teeth... now they are gone. I think I must've swallowed them."

And then he is asleep, and she can't help but wonder what will become of this little boy. Battered for years, obviously... and obviously highly intelligent. But she doesn't know him. Not really. Monsters don't come out of nowhere...

As if he can read her thoughts he mumbles, half asleep. "Doan worry... I'll stop _them_. I'll get _different_ teeth."

And then he is out again. Hopefully they'll have a new pair of eyeglasses for him when he wakes up. Hopefully the shards they took out of his face won't leave obvious scars. Hopefully.

* * *

That's it. It's intense and graphic and probably differs too much from the show because while Spencer was neglected and the show hints at abuse, it doesn't take it nearly this far. But oh well. That's why it's called _fan fiction_.

This story was originally posted on my live journal account, and my pen name on lj is "Hanniballexster", although I haven't uploaded to lj for a while. I am saving lj primarily for CM fic I want to write that is definitely, 100% MA... the stuff I can't post here.

Anyway, I did change some of this story from the original version: I edited it, cleaned up some typos and added a few extra details. This is the first chapter of the sequel to the story "That's me in the corner". **Please review!** Thanks.


	2. Chapter 2: Down but not out

**Title:** Losing My Religion by Lexikal (Chapter Two)  
**Rating:** M for graphic violence against a child and language (in the first chapter).  
**Fandom:** Criminal Minds  
**Summary:** After two years away from his father and his father's violent rages, Spencer Reid, now ten, is returned home. Spencer has changed... but has William Reid?

**Author's Note:** This story (chapter one) was originally published on my live journal account as a single story under the title "_Losing Myself_". However, after writing "_That's me in the corner_", I decided to write a sequel, and realized that this story would make an excellent first chapter for the sequel.

Now we're onto Chapter Two... how does Reid deal with this latest attack, now that Gideon is in his life? Please review if you like. Or if you hate. Or, most of all, if you're indifferent (that's the worst!)

Oh, and please, if you suspect a child is being abused or neglected, phone **1-800-4-A-CHILD **(if you live in America), your local police, local child protective agency or local child protective services' hot-line. You might not be able to save lives by profiling UnSubs, but you may very well be able to save the life of a child by reporting abuse to the proper authorities. Remember... children often can't speak for themselves! According to Childhelp USA (I assume their stats are only for the US, but suffice to say, abuse is a common and hideous epidemic world-wide), _3 million child abuse reports are received every year (in the states)_, but these reports often involve multiple children. And, of course, most cases of child abuse are never reported, let alone investigated.

* * *

Spencer had been transferred to another room. The bruises wouldn't fade for weeks still- hell, it had only been three _days_ since he'd been brought in- but he had had tried hobbling around on his broken leg with crutches, sweating profusely and swearing in Spanish. He hadn't seen the woman doctor named Maria again. Maybe she only worked in the ICU. Because his leg had been so severely broken, he was confined to a wheelchair- at least for the immediate present- when he was out of bed, but that was okay. At least the Foley had been removed and he could wheel himself to the bathroom and pee in privacy.

He'd spoken to the hospital's child psychiatrist and a social worker, and relayed information about his time at one of the Childhelp villages and even told them about Gideon and how he worked for the FBI. They'd nodded politely but hadn't really seemed to pay attention. So he'd asked to use a phone.

"Spencer, I don't think phoning your mother is a good idea right now," one of the social workers said bluntly, in a no-nonsense tone of voice. Reid shrugged indifferently.

"So my mom is back at home," he said in a blasé tone. He'd expected she'd be. "If she's at home, she's been released... so why can't I go home?"

"Spencer, I believe this has been discussed with you before. The police don't have enough evidence to hold your mother..."

"That's because she didn't _do_ anything to me," Reid quipped angrily, craning his head up to look at the woman. She looked to be in her mid-sixties, with greying hair and a slightly weathered, drained expression. She'd probably been good at her job at one point, Reid mused silently... and then she'd burned out, and become a bitter, slightly snappy, shell of what had once been a compassionate person.

"They also didn't have enough evidence to hold your father, so _either_ way, you can't go home," she said simply.

"I don't want the phone to phone my mother," Spencer said softly. "I want to phone a_ friend_."

"Ahhh... your FBI agent?" The woman said with a smirk. Reid licked his lips and thought about how to respond. They obviously didn't believe him about Gideon. Silly, really. If they'd even bothered to phone the village and speak to the counsellors, they would know he was telling the truth.

"Just a friend I met when I was at the village..." Reid said softly, hoping that would suffice.

The woman looked uncertain.

"We can't let you make a long-distance call," the social worker said. "Unless it's to contact a family member who can take you."

Reid sighed tiredly. He had no money...well, he did. At home. 53.75 in a ceramic bank that looked like a space shuttle. Not that the money would do him any good if he couldn't access it.

He knew Gideon's cell and office numbers by heart, of course... but he had no money. He took the brakes off his wheelchair and began to roll away.

"Where do you think you're going, Spencer?" The social worker- she had introduced herself as Margaret Clemmens- called after him.

"Just taking a _stroll_," Reid called back, annoyed. But he had an idea of how to get hold of Gideon. It would have to work.

* * *

Reid wheeled himself past the waiting room, past the play room. Several nurses looked up from the desk and smiled as they saw him pass. He waved back nonchalantly.

"You're really learning how to cruise, there, Spencer," One of the nurses called to him as he whipped past. Reid smiled back a little and turned the corner.

There were a row of pay phones. He wheeled up to one, put the brakes on his chair and grabbed the phone from the cradle. Thumbed 0 for the operator and waited.

A woman's voice came on the line.

"Hello, I'd like to make a collect call?"

"I don't do collect calls, sweetie, but I can give you a 1-800 number that does... _is that okay_?"

"Sure,"

"Okay, do you have a pencil and a piece of paper ready?" The woman asked kindly, enunciating each syllable clearly. Reid smiled and wondered if she was a mother, and if so, if she had young children. Probably.

"Uh...yeah," He said in response to her question. It would be easier to just say he had stationery without explaining that he didn't need to write down a 1-800 number just to remember it. That most people didn't, in fact, since the number of digits the average person could easily recall from their short term memory was seven, hence, why telephone numbers had seven digits. Not counting area codes, of course.

She gave him the number; he thanked her, and then hung up. His heart was beating quickly.

He didn't think any of the nurses would stop him from making a collect call, but given the fact that he had almost died... and he had no aunts or uncles to speak of... he really didn't want them to deprive him from using the phone. The boy quickly punched in the number for AT&T, and waited for the operator, blurting out quickly that he wanted to make a collect call, please, when she came on the line.

"It's for an agent Jason Gideon at the FBI's ViCAP centre in Quantico, Virginia..."

"Is this some kind of joke, kid?" The operator asked warily.

"Look... _no_! Agent Gideon is sort of like my big brother and right now I am in the hospital and I really need to talk to him. Can you please just phone that number and tell him that _Spencer Reid _is on the line and is in the hospital and it's an emergency and that he really has to take the call, no matter what?"

Something about his voice, the speed and fear, must've convinced the operator.

"Okay, hold on," She told him and he heard ringing. Heard Gideon's voice pick up on the other end, but before Gideon could complete his last name the operator cut him off.

"I have a collect call from a _Spencer Reid_ here... he claims it's an _emergency_. Will you accept the charges?"

"_Yes_," Gideon said instantly.

"Okay, thank you for choosing AT&T..." the operator murmured perfunctorily- whether to Reid or Gideon- Reid wasn't certain... and then the line was free.

"_Reid_?"

"Gideon! It's _me_! I'm in the hospital and _you have to help me_... they are going to send me to a foster home! I told them about the village and you, and they either don't believe me or didn't bother to check, but I can't go home because apparently there is not enough evidence against my father... and because of my mom's schizophrenia..."

"Whoa, whoa. Calm down Reid. Start from the beginning. What happened?"

"I might not have time to explain. Look, do you have a pen and paper?"

"Yes,"

Reid quickly gave Gideon the name of the hospital, the number on his hospital bracelet, date of admission, name of admitting doctor. Gideon already knew Reid's date of birth and all of his other personal info.

"Okay, so you got that _all_? If we get cut off, you _have_ to phone the hospital and speak to the people here. I can't go to a foster home, Gideon! I _won't_! I'll run away!"

"Reid, whoa... _slow down_. After we're done here, I _will_ call the hospital and talk to whoever is in charge of your case. Now slow down, son. And tell me what happened. From the beginning..."

"You _promise_ you'll phone them? And let them know who you are?"

"_Yes_," Gideon sighed.

"What if they don't believe you are who you say you are? I told them about you and I think they thought I was making you up..."

"Reid, I will get on a plane and fly out to Vegas if I have to and speak to them in person if that's what it takes. _Okay_?" He could hear the boy's raspy, wild breathing.

"Okay," Reid said softly after a minute.

"Now, tell me what happened. From the beginning..."

So Spencer Reid told him.

* * *

"_Gideon_!" Reid yelled happily when he saw the agent. His _friend_.

He'd been told that Gideon had phoned the hospital right after he'd phoned the field office collect. Gideon had called back immediately and spoken to the head shrink and the nurses and then booked a plane flight over. But Reid had still felt nervous... until he actually _saw_ Gideon, he hadn't been able to shake the feeling that maybe Gideon had forgotten about him, or a case had come up and Gideon had had to take it. _Something_. But Gideon was here now, and he could breathe easier...

"Hey, Reid," Jason Gideon said, smiling softly at the young boy. "How you doing, kiddo?"

"_Better_!" Reid chirped brightly, and grinned. Then he moaned, is if smiling had hurt him, which- by the look of his face and the lacerations on his face and the stitches in his lip- it probably _had_.

"I lost some of my teeth, but apparently I can get new ones put in..._ not_ dentures, either." Reid said conversationally. "What have_ you_ been up to?"

Gideon took a deep breath and tried to keep his expression calm and neutral. Reid himself had told him about the beating and the resultant injuries, and the medical staff had briefed him when he'd arrived and shown him photographs of the damage, but _still_... somehow seeing the boy's injuries up close and personal made his heart ache fiercely. Worse, maybe, was how strong Reid was, or how strong and brave he was _trying_ to be.

Gideon wanted to close his eyes or maybe step out of the room for some air... _god_. How had Spencer Reid survived that _attack_? Gideon had seen similar brutality before, of course, but never had he seen a child sustain injuries that severe and actually _survive_. The only time he'd seen such extreme physical trauma, it had been too late and the handiwork, in nearly all cases, of an organized sadistic serial killer.

He _had_ to be strong for Reid now. Reid would go on indefinitely talking about this ordeal as if it had been something rather mild without a support system, without knowing- _really knowing_- that he didn't have to be an adult, didn't have to shoulder all his pain and fear alone.

Spencer Reid's face barely looked human, it was so bruised, his eyes almost swollen shut, some stitches on his forehead and what looked like a deep laceration on his neck that had been sutured. Not to mention the broken leg in the cast and the shaved head because they'd had to perform a craniotomy on the kid due to relieve pressure. _God._ He wanted to rip William Reid limb from limb.

"You look sad," Reid said worriedly, snapping Gideon out of his thoughts.

"I'm not sad, Reid," Gideon said softly.

"What are you, then?"

"I'm... I'm _concerned_ about you, Reid."

"I'm _okay_," Reid said, a little too forcefully, and Gideon nodded. "No cognitive damage and they said I'll make a full recovery."

"You're definitely a very strong little boy," Jason Gideon acknowledged and then the spell was broken. _This was real_. Reid had been beaten _again_. He'd almost _died_. Gideon stepped out of the doorway and quickly crossed over to the child and hugged him gently, careful not to cause any additional pain, smiling gently when the boy hugged him back fiercely and buried his face in Gideon's shirt.

After a minute Reid let go and looked back up at Gideon.

"They want to put me in a foster home," Spencer Reid said pensively.

"I know," Gideon said, nodding.

"I...I want to be with my mom... did you manage to get me out of the system? I can't..."

"Reid," Gideon cut in, tilting the boy's chin gently so Reid had to look at him. One of Reid's eyes, the white of the eye, was still bright red with blood. "You _are _going to foster care, son..."

"But..._no_! Do you know what can _happen_ in foster care? Why can't I go back to the Village?" Reid licked his lips nervously, and his eyes were filling.

"No spaces available right now," Gideon said softly. "Reid, buddy, it's_ okay_..."

"I don't want to go to a foster home...I might_ never_ go home if that happens...or see my mom again..." Reid said miserably, shutting his swollen eyes. Tears leaked out of the sides of his eyes and trailed down his young cheeks. His shoulders and hands were shaking.

It took Jason Gideon longer than it should have to realize that the child was crying. Reid turned his face into one hand and choked out a strangled-sounding sob.

"Reid..._Spencer_...hey, come on, pal... _look at me_. You won't be with strangers. It'll be _okay_..."

Reid opened his eyes. Wiped them angrily. Sniffled.

"_What do you mean_?"

"I applied to take care of you and had my application expedited, and my request was approved. You're going to have to come and stay with me in Virginia for a while, but..."

Reid began to cry harder then and all but fell out of his chair to grab Jason Gideon in a fierce hug. He was _really_ crying now, his entire body shaking and heaving; the sound of his relief and pent-up anguish was heart-breaking. Gideon had never heard Spencer Reid cry before. He'd seen him tear up, but not cry... and definitely not sob or weep.

Gideon moved his hand in slow circles over Spencer's shaking back and hushed him.

"Hey, hey, it's okay... it'll be okay now, buddy. It's okay. It's _okay_..."

"He...he only hits me when I am _bad_..." Reid choked out desperately and began to sob again.

"Reid, _you're_ not _bad_. _You've never been bad_. You're a good kid. You're a good kid. _You're a good kid, Spencer_..." Gideon repeated the mantra over and over. Hoping that some of it might stick. Reid did, after all, have an eidetic memory.

Reid cried for a long time. Gideon held him, rocking him slightly as if he were a toddler, making soothing noises. Finally Reid was finished and lifted his head from Gideon's chest. Wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

"Thanks, Reid. Now my shirt looks like the _shroud of Turin_..."

"Does_ not_," Reid croaked out a laugh, and smiled faintly.

"When do we go to your house in Virginia?" Reid asked after a moment.

"Well, they want to keep you a few more days, for observation. And I still have to sign some papers here in Vegas, pick up some stuff for you..."

"I don't need anything!"

"You need clothes, Reid," Gideon laughed softly. "At the very least."

"Why can't we just leave for Virginia _now_? I am not on an IV and don't need any more blood transfusions and am drinking and eating and... _you_ know... independent. You _know_? And they can take the stitches out in Virginia..."

"_Reid_," Gideon chuckled. "A few more days. It's not up for debate. Okay?"

Spencer Reid pouted like the ten-year-old he was but finally conceded. "_Okay_."

"So..." Gideon trailed, staring down at the white cast. At the scribbles. "Who is _Mary_?"

"All the female names are_ nurses_," Reid said, shaking his head. "They insisted on signing the cast, even though I think it looked better without all the graffiti. Brad and Marty are two kids I met in the play room. Brad has leukemia. Marty... I don't know, he didn't say. He was really pale, though and his lips were cyanotic. So maybe something cardiac or pulmonary..."

"So you're making friends your own age. That's good."

Reid shrugged. "Not _really_ friends, more acquaintances, I guess."

"So..." Gideon sighed, glancing around the hospital room. "What does a ten-year-old genius do all day around here to keep from getting cabin fever?"

Reid grinned devilishly.

"_Wha_t?" Gideon prompted, smiling a bit. Encouraged by the boy's expression.

"You want to race me?" Reid challenged, eyes lighting up.

"_Race_ you?" Gideon asked. Then he got it. "Ahhh...you mean a _wheelchair_ race?"

Reid nodded again, beaming. "Think you can take me, S.S.A. Gideon?"

"I don't know." Gideon said, chuckling.

"Come on... I'll show you where they keep the _chairs_." And Reid wheeled himself out of the room before Gideon could say anything else.

"Okay!" Gideon called, walking after the boy. "But after this it's _chess_, boy genius! Reid? _You hear me_?"

"Yeah, yeah, _chess_..." Reid called back. Gideon grinned.

* * *

That's it for chapter two, hope you liked it. Yes, this sequel is a multi-chapter. Please review.


	3. Chapter 3: Check and Mate

Title:

Losing My Religion by Lexikal (Chapter Three)  
**Rating:** M for graphic violence against a child and language (in the first chapter).  
**Fandom:** Criminal Minds  
**Summary:** After two years away from his father and his father's violent rages, Spencer Reid, now ten, is returned home. Spencer has changed... but has William Reid?

**Author's Note:** This story (chapter one) was originally published on my live journal account as a single story under the title "_Losing Myself_". However, after writing "_That's me in the corner_", I decided to write a sequel, and realized that this story would make an excellent first chapter for the sequel.

Now we're onto Chapter Three... Reid is going into foster care, but his new foster father is Jason Gideon.

Oh, and please, if you suspect a child is being abused or neglected, phone **1-800-4-A-CHILD **(if you live in America), your local police, local child protective agency or local child protective services' hot-line.

* * *

"_**Healing is a matter of time, but it is sometimes also a matter of opportunity."**__ – Hippocrates_

A few more days turned into about 4, and after Spencer Reid had been in the hospital over a week he was nearly bouncing off the walls with anticipation. Not only would he be getting out of the hospital today- Gideon had shown him the plane tickets and their flight was scheduled to depart at 5:30 pm from Vegas- but he'd also be able to see Virginia! With his real eyes, not just photographs of it in books. And also, being Gideon's _foster son_... that would probably be really..._cool_. Reid closed his eyes and grinned. He knew Gideon must've taken a lot of time off to become his legal guardian, because at the very least, he-_ Spencer_- would require a lot of attention at first. It was a fact Spencer Reid didn't like to think about, the fact that he was so _needy_ right now, but he couldn't walk and even though neither of his arms had been broken, he was still really tired most of the time.

When he'd asked Gideon about work, about how his absence would impact the cases, Gideon had smiled warmly at the boy.

"Reid, I'm not unit chief. A man named David Rossi is. Plus, I needed a break anyway."

"You work under the man who_ founded _the BAU?"

Gideon had nodded. "Yeah, but remember, I work in ViCAP." And then Gideon had, not for the first time, told Reid about the 4 subdivisions of the BAU; Unit 1 dealt with Counter-terrorism and threat assessment, unit 2 with crimes against adults, unit 3 with crimes against children and unit 4 was ViCAP; the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program.

Reid had been told about the different sub-types before, but not what each group actually dealt with, not specifically.

"I understand counter-terrorism and threat assessment; BAU unit 1," the young boy said earnestly. "Car bombings, arson, terrorist threats...right?"

Gideon nodded.

"And ViCAP...well, you guys deal with homicides and missing persons and sexual assaults. Serial killers, sometimes. But the other two? Why have two additional units?"

"ViCAP crimes usually can't be profiled by the other units, or are longer standing," Gideon said. "Each case has its own qualifying information. Most ViCAP crimes also cross state-lines."

'What's unit 3...crimes against children?" Reid had asked then and looked up at his mentor, almost frightened.

"Just what it sounds like... that unit works crimes committed against children..."

"_Like_?"

"Well, some examples are kidnappings, sexual assaults, mysterious disappearances and murder. Why Reid?"

Reid sucked on his bruised-purple lip. They both knew _why_ he'd asked.

"No unit of the BAU deals with _individual_ child abuse cases." Gideon said softly.

Reid chewed on his lower lip. He wasn't sure why that possibility had frightened him so much, but it had.

'Did you ever work for unit 3?" Reid asked, staring at his lap.

"Actually, I did Reid."

Reid glanced up. "You worked with...you found people who killed and raped kids? Tortured them?"

Gideon nodded again, his eyes darkening as memories came back. "Yes."

"Is that why you volunteer at the village...?" Reid asked after a long moment.

"That's part of it. I needed to know that some kids out there who had been hurt really bad- _like you_- would be okay. _Were_ okay."

"_Oh_."

"Look, Reid, I have to go out for a bit... back to the motel, give them my key, get my stuff and make a few stops and then I'll be back and we'll get ready, okay?"

Reid brightened immediately. "Yeah! Okay!"

Gideon rested a hand on Spencer Reid's shoulder and squeezed lightly. "See you in a few hours, pal."

And then Gideon left to get his stuff from the motel and make his "few stops". Reid grinned and wheeled his chair out into the hallway, mind already racing with thoughts about the plane trip, about Quantico. He'd never been on a plane before, and although he understood the physics behind aerodynamics, actually riding in a plane would probably be an altogether different experience. As for Virginia...

Maybe Gideon would take him to the field office! Maybe he'd get to see the_ real_ FBI building, the famous one in Quantico! Maybe he'd even get to meet David Rossi, the BAU's founder, the man who had debunked the theory of satanic serial killers. Maybe Rossi would sign his cast! Maybe Gideon would give him fake assignments, information about cases or killings and let Reid try to figure out the killer's identity... or what Gideon called the "UnSub"...from specific clues about historical crimes.

Reid grinned and rolled his wheelchair past the nurses' station, into the playroom. Both Brad and Marty were there, along with some other kids who were either new or had been absent the few times Reid had previously visited.

"I heard you're leaving today," Brad said, looking up from a small table where he was slowly piecing together a 100-piece _Ninja Turtles_ puzzle.

"Yeah," Reid said, realizing by the look on Brad's face that maybe he had been a little bit too enthusiastic with his response.

"Must be nice to be injured instead of actually _sick_," Brad scoffed scornfully, and turned back to his puzzle.

Reid stared at the boy and opened his mouth. Closed it. Finally sighed heavily. He knew Brad wasn't trying to be _mean_, that Brad was sick and tired of having cancer. And it was true... being injured was ultimately a lot better than having a chronic illness like cancer.

But his desire to tell Brad and Marty about Quantico and the FBI agent he would be living with was gone, now.

* * *

Jason Gideon parked the motel car in front of William Reid's house and sat there for a moment, collecting himself. Reid's mother didn't work and was from all account house-bound and the family's only vehicle was parked in the driveway. Gideon knew. Gideon knew the make and model and colour, and the license plate number.

The house was a bungalow, a single storey clone of most of the houses on this street, except that Reid's father had built a basement shortly after the family had moved in. The basement was used as the laundry room, and from what Gideon knew about Reid, also the room where the young boy had been physically beaten the most often and most severely.

Jason Gideon got out of the car then, jogged up the driveway and rang the door bell. He'd spoken to William Reid already- he'd had to- and William had promised to have some of Spencer's things ready.

The door opened, and William Reid looked out at Gideon.

Gideon made himself remain calm, but every fibre in his body wanted to strangle the man in front of him.

"Agent Gideon?" William Reid slurred. Drunk again.

Gideon nodded, pressing his lips into a thin line. "That's right. How did you guess?"

"You're here for some of Spencer's things. His mother packed him a bag with some clothes and a toothbrush... some of the kid's favourite books. Did you know he likes to read poetry every night before going to bed?" William Reid laughed, as if he found that last fact funny. "What sort of ten year old boy reads poetry?"

Gideon's stomach clenched. So did his fists. "What sort of man beats a helpless, defenceless child almost to death with an iron?" Gideon said coldly. William Reid blinked blearily.

"They can't prove I did that..." Spencer's father began. Gideon cut him off.

"I suppose he beat himself then? And burned himself with cigarettes? And raped himself?" Gideon had been told about Reid's behaviour in the ICU, and while he didn't think Reid had been sexually abused by his father, he'd set the bait.

"_What_?" William Reid sputtered. Until Gideon had said the word "rape", Reid's so-called-father had looked almost bored. "He said I did _what_ to him?"

"You heard me." Gideon ground out.

"I never touched my son! Not like...not like _that_! That's_ perverted_! I may have banged him up a few times, now and then..."

"_Burned him_?" Gideon prodded icily.

"Little thief was taking some of my smokes, selling them to some kids down the street... _you don't steal from your own father_, for crying out loud..."

"So you've beat and burned him? Just so we're both _clear_. But never raped him?"

"Never ...yeah, that other stuff, okay! Yes! _Sometimes_! But never... _never molested him_."

Gideon pulled the cassette recorder out of his pocket and showed William Reid.

"You know, considering how intelligent your son is... I would've expected more from _you_."

William Reid stared down at the cassette recorder. Narrowed his eyes.

"And considering, _Agent_ Gideon, that I am an attorney _you_ should know that I know my rights and that _that _little _stunt _you just pulled is called entrapment."

"Oh, I didn't record this little chat to have charges pressed against you for _this _crime... Spencer's last attack," Gideon said, moving his mental queen to take William Reid's King. It would be "checkmate" in two sentences.

"No? Why then?" William Reid asked cagily.

"I plan on keeping this for the future. Hold onto it after Spencer is eventually released from my care and comes back home..."

"What's your _point_?" William Reid snapped.

"My point, you unconscionable excuse for a parent, is that when Spencer comes back, if you ever lay a hand on a single hair of his again, I _will_ use this tape as evidence. I might not be able to use this to have you locked up for what you did _this time_, but you ever hurt your son again, I think this tape will go a long way to providing some insight into which parent in this house is the actual abuser, don't you?"

William Reid stared back at Jason Gideon. His mouth opened and shut a few times. He was speechless.

_Checkmate._

_

* * *

_

"Hey Reid," Gideon had stopped to eat and collect himself in a park for half an hour before returning back to the hospital.

Spencer Reid glanced over and grinned. "Are we going yet? Are we leaving _now_?"

Gideon nodded. He'd already gotten Spencer his own wheelchair, and it was waiting outside in the taxi. He'd given the man 10 dollars to wait the 15 minutes or so it would take to get Spencer dressed and wheeled downstairs.

"Yes, actually, the taxi is already here. We have to get you dressed, and then out of here." Gideon smiled brightly. "You don't want the taxi leaving with your new wheelchair, do you?"

"What do you mean; my _new _wheelchair?" Reid asked.

"You can't exactly take one of the hospital's wheelchairs all the way to Virginia, Reid..." Gideon said, chuckling.

"The taxi is here... _now_?"

Gideon nodded. He knew Reid wanted to ask a million questions, but he also realized Reid knew that they had to hurry up.

"Dressed? You bought me clothes?"

"Actually, your Mom packed you some things..."

"You saw my _Mom_?"

Gideon sighed. He hadn't planned this very well.

"Reid, we have to _hurry and get dressed_. We can talk in the taxi and on the plane, okay?" Gideon coaxed as he walked over to Spencer's bed. He put down the suitcase and flipped it open. There was a nightlight, a flashlight, a toothbrush and soap in a plastic bag, underwear, button-up shirts, sweaters and pressed pants. Socks. Lying on top was a book of Robert Frost poetry.

Reid was going to have troubled getting into the pants, especially with his cast.

"Reid, hold on. Why don't you put on one of your shirts, okay, buddy? I am going to go ask if they have some baggy sweat pants or something you can wear..."

"_Why_?" Reid asked.

"Because I really doubt you'll be able to fit your cast into any of _those_ pants... hold on. _Put on a shirt_!"

Gideon glanced down at his watch as he approached the nurse's desk. Three minutes had already gone by.

"Hi, running a bit late... the taxi is already waiting, and Spencer's mother only packed pants that..."

"You need something that he can wear over that cast?" The nurse guessed. Gideon smiled and nodded.

"We have some hospital pajama pants with draw-strings. They'll be really baggy on Spencer, but the leg should slide right over his cast."

"That would be great," Gideon said. The nurse nodded and rushed away, quickly returning. The pants were mint-green cotton, but at least Spencer wouldn't be sitting on the plane in his underwear. Gideon thanked her and ran back to Spencer's room.

Spencer was buttoning up one of his shirts carefully, tongue sticking out as he concentrated on the task. It was a quirk Gideon had noticed before. Despite the boy's intelligence and precocity, when it came to certain tasks that involved coordination, he could sometimes be very clumsy.

"Good job, pal. You keep working on that shirt, and I'll work on the pants, okay?"

Reid nodded, still focused on buttoning his shirt. Gideon unfolded the pants and began to snake Reid's legs through the waist of the pants and down each pant leg, gently lifting the boy up to secure the pants around his stomach. He pulled lightly on the drawstring and tied it.

"That too tight?"

Spencer Reid shook his head.

"Okay, buddy, we gotta go now," Gideon said. Reid nodded. Gideon closed Reid's suitcase, flipped the latches closed and handed the boy the case. Then he wheeled him out of the room, down the hallway, to the elevator.

The taxi was still idling when they got outside, the driver standing outside and looking at his watch.

"Sorry for the wait!" Gideon called, and gently reached down and scooped the ten-year-old out of the hospital's wheelchair. He carried the boy over to the taxi, settled him in the back with his suitcase, and got in the passenger seat.

"Airport, right?" the driver asked, throwing a startled and slightly horrified look at the rear-view mirror. At the monstrously battered chid in the backseat. Jason Gideon could only imagine what the man was thinking.

"Yeah," Gideon said, sighing.

"Gideon?" Spencer said from the back seat.

"Yeah, pal?"

"I'm going to put on one of my sweaters now, too, okay?"

"Okay, buddy."

* * *

That's it for chapter 3... Will be away from the computer for a few days, so don't expect any updates for at least three days or so. In the mean time, have fun and remain voracious **_reid-ers_!** Ha-ha! (Yeah, I make the stupidest jokes!)


	4. Chapter 4: Clouds

**Title:** Losing My Religion by Lexikal (Chapter Four)  
**Rating:** M for graphic violence against a child and language (in the first chapter).  
**Fandom:** Criminal Minds  
**Summary:** After two years away from his father and his father's violent rages, Spencer Reid, now ten, is returned home. Spencer has changed... but has William Reid?

**Author's Note:** This story (chapter one) was originally published on my live journal account as a single story under the title "_Losing Myself_". However, after writing "_That's me in the corner_", I decided to write a sequel, and realized that this story would make an excellent _first _chapter for the sequel.

Now we're onto Chapter Four... Reid is going into foster care, but his new foster father is Jason Gideon.

Oh, and please, if you suspect a child is being abused or neglected, phone **1-800-4-A-CHILD **(if you live in America), your local police, local child protective agency or local child protective services' hot-line.

* * *

"_**Fear is a darkroom where negatives develop."**__ – Usman B. Asif_

The taxi pulled up outside the airport and sat idling for a moment. Gideon got out, went around to the trunk and pulled out Spencer Reid's wheelchair. He unfolded it and then went and paid the driver. Reid was peering out the taxi window, looking at the airport as if amazed, eyes bulging slightly. Gideon almost wanted to laugh, seeing the look on his face.

When Reid had gone to the Village, he'd gone by bus. The young prodigy had never been on a plane before.

Gideon opened Reid's door and took his suitcase out. He put the suitcase down beside the curb and then gently scooped Reid up again, careful with the child, nudging the taxi door closed with his hip. The taxi driver drove off.

He carried the boy over to his chair, gently sat him in it, and wheeled him over the ramp, bending to pick up the kid's suitcase as he passed. He handed the suitcase to Reid who gripped it possessively to his chest.

Reid was unusually quiet.

"You nervous?" Gideon said. Reid had seemed excited at the prospect of flying earlier, but now he was eerily quiet. "Reid?"

"Maybe a little bit," Reid admitted.

"Of what?" Gideon asked, and wheeled the boy through the automatic doors and into the airport. The place was bustling with people and noise and Gideon could feel Reid tensing in his chair. "About what, Reid?"

"I've never been on a plane before. I know they're safer than cars, in theory. But if you look at certain statistics, that could be due to the fact that the average person makes far fewer trips on a plane in his or her lifetime than in a car or other land-bound means of transportation. For instance, the number of deaths per billion passengers in terms of kilometres is only .05 on planes compared to 3.1 deaths when it comes to cars, but there are 117 deaths per billion passenger-journeys versus 40 for cars... so..."

"Meaning?" Gideon asked wheeling them to the elevator. He already knew where they were going, where their terminal was. He also already knew what Reid was talking about, but he wanted the boy to sort it out for himself, logically.

"Well, statistically, flying in a plane is safer than riding in a car because the chance of being involved in an accident is less likely. However, if you are involved in a plane crash, the chance of dying is far higher than a car crash, so... it's kind of like in a casino. People can play the penny and nickel slots or invest more money and play for the big bucks. The penny and nickel slots pay out more often, but usually not very much. However, every so often they do pay out quite a bit. But if you're investing a lot on craps or poker, like 10,000 dollars, the chances of winning a lot are next to nothing, but if you do win, you stand to make a lot more money. Cars are like the penny and nickel slots- more wins, or in this case, crashes, and more fatalities because more people are driving and there are more crashes so... yeah. But the planes are the high-stake games. The chance of winning is not as high, but if you do crash... you see?"

Gideon wasn't surprised the kid had used a gambling metaphor to compare car and plane crash statistics. Not when he'd grown up in Vegas.

"So, you're scaring yourself." Gideon said flatly. "There are a lot more car crashes, and therefore more deaths, but when a plane does crash, the chance of surviving is far less likely than a car accident?"

"Something like that. Plus, car crashes tend to be pretty fast, even the fatal ones. Within seconds. But if a plane goes down, because you're about 30,000 feet above the surface of the Earth on average, you have a lot longer to panic, so the suffering is extended. It's not an instant death... you have time to..."

"_Reid_..." Gideon said sternly. "We won't crash. You'll probably be so amazed by the entire experience that you won't have time to be afraid."

"_Maybe_," Reid said uncertainly. "But if we _do_ crash, we'll almost certainly die. And most of the stats about the safety of air travel come from the air travel industry, so I am not sure how objective they can really be. But... then I read _other_ statistics... and it all gets pretty confusing, so right now, I don't know what to think..."

"We have over an hour before we have to go through security," Gideon said, stopping the boy before he could work himself into a frenzy.

"Our plane takes off at 5:30 pm?" Reid asked, although Gideon knew the kid hadn't forgotten. Gideon nodded anyway.

"It's 4:00 now. What time do we have to be there to go through security?"

"5:15 at the latest, we'll try to make it for 5:10, just so we're not rushing."

"Okay,"

"So...you hungry? Want to get something to eat? There is a food court around the corner."

"Um..." Reid sounded upset. "_Gideon_?"

"Yeah?"

"People are _staring_ at me,"

"Just ignore them, buddy." Gideon said softly. But it was true. People were gawking at the black and purple boy with the broken leg and the shaved head. Reid's bandages had been removed but it would still be several months before his hair grew back long enough to fully cover the craniotomy scar, and over a year until Spencer Reid's hair was back to its usual length.

"I-I..." Reid trailed. Gideon stopped the chair, put the brakes on, and came around to Reid. He hunched down in front of the child.

"Reid, just ignore_ them_... they're just curious."

"What if...I know I look like a _monster_," Spencer Reid said softly, chewing on his lip. It was hard to tell because of the extensive bruising but Jason Gideon was pretty certain the kid was blushing with embarrassment.

"No, you _don't_ look like a monster, Reid," Gideon said sympathetically, trying to keep the pity he felt for the child out of his voice.

"What do I look like then?" Reid exhaled miserably.

"You look like a very strong kid who was physically hurt very badly." It was the truth, but Gideon knew it wouldn't satisfy Reid, because his embarrassment wasn't logical.

"I...I am_ bald_..." Reid squeaked miserably. "And I_ can't_ walk, and I know my face barely looks_ human_. I am _ugly_. And what if I have to pee on the plane? You'll have to carry me."

Gideon reached over and put a hand on Reid's shoulder. Squeezed lightly.

He stood up then, took the brakes off the chair and began to wheel the chair again. Past the food court. To a small clothing store.

"What... there are stores in the airport?"

"Yes, Reid." Gideon said softly.

"What are we doing here?"

It was a GAP kids' store. Just a small little outlet, but it might... Gideon rolled Reid into the tiny little store, put the brakes on again. "Do you have any hooded sweatshirts that might fit a child his size?" Gideon asked when they were inside.

The male sales clerk behind the desk glanced over at Reid, before doing a double take.

"Um...um,_ yeah_. I think a youth medium would be good for him, as he's so slight. I'll... we only have navy blue and red left. Is that okay?"

"That's fine," Gideon answered. "Reid... what colour would you like? Navy blue or red?"

"_Gideon_?" Reid said uncertainly, still not certain what they were doing in a clothing store in the airport.

"Just pick a colour, Reid. We still have to eat."

"Navy, I guess." The boy said softly. The clerk nodded and went over to the rack, pulled out a navy blue hoody and came over to Reid.

"Is it okay if he tries it on out here? Over his sweater?" Gideon asked. The clerk nodded solemnly- obviously uncomfortable by the sight of the boy and obviously trying not to stare at the horrendous bruising and injuries.

"That's no problem at all," the clerk said softly.

Gideon gently helped Reid into the hoody, pulled his arms through, before gently pulling the hood up and over Reid's bald head.

"How's that feel? Too tight?"

Reid shook his head. If anything, the hoody was a touch baggy.

"Is it itchy or anything? Is it _comfortable_?"

"Yeah," Reid said softly, burrowing into the hoody. Gideon smiled.

"Okay, we'll take that," he told the clerk. The clerk nodded. Gideon went over to a rack of sunglasses.

"Reid? Pair of glasses?"

A lot of the swelling around Reid's eyes had gone down, but not all. Reid shrugged.

Gideon grabbed a pair of generic looking child-sized sunglasses and placed them on the counter.

"He's going to wear the glasses and hoody out, if that's okay." Gideon told the clerk, who nodded immediately. The man quickly ran up the items, taking Gideon's Master-card without comment. Gideon signed the bill.

"Um, _sir_?" The clerk said, just as Gideon was about to leave. Jason Gideon looked up. Reid had already been handed his sunglasses and had put them on. With the hoody covering his bald head and the glasses covering his swollen eyes, he looked a lot more secure. He also looked a bit like a pint-sized bank robber.

"Yes?"

The clerk smiled, bent under the counter, and came around to Gideon.

He handed Jason Gideon a 100 dollar gift card.

"Every 100th child customer receives one of these," the clerk said, smiling broadly. Gideon took the card, looked it over. Stared back at the man, corners of his mouth twitching with mild amusement.

"_Thanks_," Gideon said.

"No problem," the clerk said, looking over at Reid. "You have a good flight now, you hear little man?" The clerk told Reid kindly.

Reid nodded perfunctorily.

When they were out of the store, Reid craned his head around.

"Not every 100th kid to buy something there gets a gift card, do they?" Reid asked sceptically.

"I doubt it," Gideon said honestly, knowing that Reid would be able to tell if he lied.

"And I probably wasn't even the 100th kid... I mean... he just gave us that because... you think he felt sorry for me?"

"I think... I think he wanted to do something _nice_ for you." Gideon said carefully. He knew Reid already felt exposed and weak and vulnerable. The last thing Spencer Reid would accept right now was pity.

"What's the _difference_?"

Gideon sighed. "Reid, let me ask you something. Hypothetically, if you were given a chance to have a dog as a pet, and given the option of getting a pure breed of your choice for a lot of money from a breeder, or a mongrel from the pound, which would you choose?"

"The mongrel from the pound," Reid said immediately. "Although I am more of a cat person, I think."

"Okay, same question but change the word dog to cat."

"Still the mongrel from the pound," Reid said, "Although the term mongrel is usually reserved for canines, it technically can apply to any animal of indeterminate breed. So... the mongrel_ cat_ from the pound."

"Okay, _why_?"

Reid was silent for a moment.

"Because I don't really_ care_ about the breed- that's superficial. It doesn't _matter_. And the pure-breeds most likely won't be euthanized, but there_ is_ a surplus of unwanted animals that would make great pets, and many of them _are_ euthanized."

"So you'd want to reduce some suffering in the world by saving one of those unwanted animals? Even if it was just one?"

"Yeah... I guess so."

"Reid, I think when that man saw you, he felt badly for you. He didn't pity you or feel sorry for you necessarily, but he saw a kid who has obviously been through the ringer, and he wanted to do something nice. Make the world a better place."

"I still... I just want to be treated_ normally_. He wouldn't have done that for a normal looking kid."

"Maybe not," Gideon agreed.

"So I was right... he felt_ sorry_ for me," Reid said again, his voice full of self-loathing and shame.

Jason Gideon sighed. Decided to switch topics. He wheeled Reid back the way they had come, into the food court.

"What do you want to eat?"

"Not hungry," Reid said solemnly.

"You sure?" Gideon asked. Spencer Reid nodded.

"Okay... but I'm gonna get a coffee and a muffin."

* * *

They were finally on the plane. They'd gone through security at 5:00 and Reid had pulled his hood down and taken his sunglasses off before going through security, without needing to be asked. Gideon had shown the security guard his FBI badge, his passport, Reid's birth certificate and the paperwork listing him as Reid's legal guardian. Then they'd checked Reid's suitcase, and then Gideon's travel bag and waved them through. All in all, it had been much easier than Gideon had expected.

They'd been allowed to board first due to Reid's handicapped state. Gideon pushed him to the plane, then picked up the boy and carried him to his seat. The chair was then folded up and a stewardess took it and stored it.

Reid had opted for a window seat, for which Gideon was glad. It would be much easier to pick the boy up and carry him to the washroom if he needed to use it during the flight, and Gideon himself would be able to use the washroom without staggering over the boy with Reid sitting next to the window.

They'd stopped in a bookstore before boarding and browsed, but Reid had said he didn't want anything.

"What about a Las Vegas sticker to put on your suitcase?" Gideon had asked.

"Why? I live_ here_."

"Yeah, but then we can get you a sticker from Quantico and anywhere else in Virginia we visit, and if you do any other flying in the future you can get even more stickers... sort of like a travel diary of places you've been."

Reid shrugged, so Gideon got the boy a Vegas sticker. And on impulse, before Reid could refuse, a model toy of the plane they would be flying in, complete with a fact sheet. Reid probably knew all the basic facts about the particular plane they would be flying in anyway, but he had the feeling Spencer Reid hadn't received many, if any, toys in his life.

Reid took the plane and stared at it curiously when Gideon handed it to him, once they were on the plane.

"I still don't get why you spent money on_ this_. I have an eidetic memory. I won't forget what this plane looks like."

"Well, I just thought you might like a to-scale model," Gideon said.

"Thanks," Reid said softly, and turned the toy over in his hands, studying it from different angles.

The pilot's voice cut in suddenly then, telling the passengers to please put their seat belts on. The pilot went over the basic safety instructions, the basic rules of the plane, explained where the oxygen masks were located and how to use them, approximately how long the flight would take and finished with a wish that they'd all have a _great_ flight.

Reid glanced over at Gideon and sucked on his lip. His fingers were already digging little holes into the arm-rests and they hadn't even taken off yet, but the plane had begun to move on the runway.

"Reid, we'll be _fine_."

"Most crashes- I think it's 70%- occur during the take-off or the landing, even though those two manoeuvres only represent about 4% of total flight time."

"Which means that if we _do_ crash, we _won't_ be 30,000 feet up like you were so scared of," Gideon soothed, knowing it was slightly moronic to try and reason with an irrational fear.

But the statement seemed to calm Reid. Not much, but a tiny bit. And then, they began to speed up.

Gideon talked slowly and soothingly, walking Reid step-by-step through the take-off.

But when the plane actually began to pull up, Reid let out a startled shriek and buried his face in his hands.

* * *

Luckily Reid's fear only lasted for a few minutes, and by the time they were in the air his breathing had levelled out. Somewhat.

Reid was staring out the window at the blanket of clouds just outside his window.

"Gideon!" He pointed. Jason Gideon leaned over and looked.

"We're flying through Cumulonimbus clouds," the boy said in an awed tone of voice. "Cumulonimbus clouds can hover at about 300 meters above the Earth's surface, or 1,000 feet, but they can also continue to grow vertically, their tops extending over 12,000 meters or approximately 39,000 feet. We're flying through _thunderclouds_, Gideon. These are the clouds that are responsible for lightning, thunder and even tornadoes."

"Does that worry you, Reid?"

"I don't know. I was expecting to see Cirrus clouds. Those generally form at 20,000 feet and above."

"So those would be...high? For clouds?"

Reid nodded.

"Clouds that are considered to be at a medium altitude or middle-level clouds have the prefix _alto_ in front of them, like altocumulus and altostratus. Altocumulus are the clouds most people think of when they think of clouds... the usual puff-ball type clouds most children draw. Altostratus clouds are usually gray or blue-gray and precede storms. Middle clouds form between 6,500 to 23,000 feet, approximately. The lower clouds are... did you know nimbus implies rain?"

"Does it?" Gideon asked. As long as Reid kept babbling about clouds, he probably wouldn't think about crash statistics.

"Yeah, well... in Classical Mythology a _nimbus_ is _also_ sometimes a shining aura surrounding a deity while on Earth..."

"Like a halo?" Gideon asked.

"Yeah."

"So in the Catholic Church, would those haloes around the baby Jesus in paintings and other forms of art count as nimbuses?"

"I _assume_ so," Reid said, and then fell silent for a moment. "Jesus is considered a deity, isn't he?"

"I think that one is still up for debate."

"No, I mean, the _Catholics_ would consider him a deity... a God._ Right_?"

"They consider him the son of God. A part of God in human form. The _Messiah_. The Jews consider him a prophet and..."

"I'm not sure then, I'll_ have_ to look it up when we land," Reid said seriously.

The boy was silent for a few moments before beginning to speak again.

"_Cumulus_ refers to clouds that form in heaps or piles; _Cirrus_ refers to thin, white filaments or narrow bands; _Stratus_ to gray, horizontal streaks of clouds usually found at lower altitudes; _Nimbus_ denotes rain or storm activity... cool, huh?"

"_Very_." Gideon said, smiling. Reid smiled back. The clouds were beginning to break up and turn into, well... some other form of cloud. Gideon leaned back in his seat.

"_Reid_?"

"Yeah?"

"My eyes are tired. I'm just going to close them, okay... but please keep talking about the clouds. It's really interesting stuff." Gideon felt a tiny bit guilty, but he knew that Spencer Reid could- and _would_- talk about a specific topic for hours, if not longer. And right now _clouds_ were the topic of interest.

"Okay," Reid said cheerfully, sweetly oblivious to Gideon's boredom, and began to chatter on about Cirrocumulus clouds, abbreviated CC for convenience, also known colloquially as_ herringbone_ or _mackerel _clouds...

* * *

That's it for chapter 4, hope you liked this chapter. Will update with chapter 5 as soon as possible. I recently got a beta but because I don't have a computer at home, the beta-process will be a bit unusual- I will edit and spell and grammar check to the best of my ability, then post, and then if my beta finds any problems she will send me a PM and I will go back and fix any problems I think need fixing. This way readers don't have to wait as long for chapters to be updated, but glaring typos (if I do miss 'em) WILL be fixed.


	5. Chapter 5: Moogie

**Title:** Losing My Religion by Lexikal (Chapter Five)  
**Rating:** M for graphic violence against a child and language (in the first chapter).  
**Fandom:** Criminal Minds  
**Summary:** After two years away from his father and his father's violent rages, Spencer Reid, now ten, is returned home. Spencer has changed... but has William Reid?

**Fan Fic Music Video Note**: I decided to make a fan fic music video for this fic, to make it clearer for myself the sort of relationship I wanted little Reid and Gideon to develop. I used clips from the movie "Martian Child" because Bobby Coleman looks so much like I think a young Spencer Reid would (never mind the way he dresses and the amazing facial expressions!) and John Cusack, to my surprise, COULD pass as a young Gideon (Cusack is thinner in the face, but looks strikingly similar, actually). The vid, obviously, doesn't show Reid beaten up the way he was in this story because those clips simply didn't exist, but I did add some clips from "Radio Flyer" to suggest past physical abuse. If you are interested in watching the video, please go to youtube and type in "lexikalfanfic" in quotations and press enter. A vid entitled "Losing my religion" should pop up, along with a few others. Click on it, or if that doesn't work, the url is listed on my fan fiction dot net profile page.

**Author's Note:** We're onto Chapter Five (already!)... Reid is going into foster care, but his new foster father is Jason Gideon. **Please note that this story takes place in 1990 and in that sense, it is not AU. **Hotch and the younger members of the team aren't on the team yet (Hotch would be about 19 or 20 or so in 1990, if he was in high school in 1987 as the show claims), everyone else is a teen or younger. The only other team member besides Gideon who is active at the BAU in this fic in 1990 is David Rossi. Also, while it's mentioned on the show that Gideon has a son ("Stephen"), I wrote this story as if Gideon was never married and has no children of his own. Hope none of you mind.

Like always, if you suspect a child may be being abused or neglected, please phone 1-800-4-A-CHILD or your local police or child protective agency. Also, if you like this, hate it or are indifferent, **please review** and tell me what or what didn't work for you. Thanks!

* * *

"_**Hope, the paramount duty that heaven lays, for its own honour, on man's suffering heart."**__ - Wordsworth_

Spencer Reid fell asleep somewhere over the middle of Missouri and woke up when their meals came. Gideon had woken up shortly after his cat nap to find Spencer staring and tracing clouds silently with his right pointer finger. Reid was apparently finished with speaking and Gideon had tried to make small talk, telling the boy about the small, banal simple pleasures of life in Virginia and DC, but Reid seemed lost in his own world.

Eventually he'd drifted off, and when Gideon glanced over the boy's head was pressed up against the window, a thin line of drool collecting in his hand. He gently rearranged Reid's hand, but Reid startled awake with a shriek, staring around for a moment as if still half-asleep. Gideon couldn't see his eyes because he was still wearing his sunglasses, but it didn't take a profiler to realize that Spencer Reid was using the sunglasses as a sort of half-face mask. He could hide behind the glasses.

"Whoa, whoa, easy. Just _me_." Gideon soothed. Reid glanced around and nodded finally, as if content that it had, indeed, just been Gideon who had disturbed him.

"When did I fall asleep?" Reid said softly, and turned his head to look out the window again.

"I'm not sure, about an hour ago maybe?" Gideon said. He'd spent the hour Reid had been sleeping to think about what needed to be done once they got home.

He'd come for Reid so suddenly that the house wasn't really prepared. He had legal custody of Reid, but there would still be a housing inspection in a few days, apparently. He'd only managed to get custody of Reid because of his close relationship with the boy when Reid had been in the village and the "heinous" extent of Reid's recent attack. And the fact that he was an FBI agent who had worked for the _Crimes against Children _section in the BAU.

Gideon planned to have Reid stay on the main floor- that way the boy could wheel his chair in and out of the back door and onto the patio, and the largest guest room was there, but there were drawbacks to that plan. If Reid got upset during the night or had a nightmare, Gideon wasn't sure he'd hear him, not with his own bedroom being one floor above.

Gideon had made plans with a dentist to have some of the child's missing teeth put back in. It would be a multi-staged effort to get his four missing teeth replaced. He'd phoned around and asked questions, and all Jason Gideon really knew was that Reid would go in, have his jaw mapped where the teeth had been knocked out and then, sometime later, have the artificial teeth screwed in to the bone. The dentist had tried to explain the procedure in layman's terms but Gideon had felt so much rage at the idea of Reid having to undergo such a procedure after everything else he'd been through that it had been hard to focus.

And then their meals came, the stewardess wheeling the little cart and stopping by them, wearing a smile so big she wouldn't have looked out of place on a toothpaste commercial.

"Veal, chicken or fish, sir?" She asked Gideon brightly.

"Fish, please." Gideon said tiredly, without thinking. "And coffee to drink. Black. Thank you."

The stewardess nodded and handed Gideon his meal. She looked over at Reid and her face changed, but she managed to get herself together again very quickly.

"And for you, Honey? Veal, chicken or fish?"

"Do you have anything vegetarian?" Reid asked softly.

"I'm sorry, Honey," the stewardess shook her head. "All special dinners must be pre-ordered."

"Oh... is the chicken free-range?"

"Reid, just pick a dinner, _please_," Gideon said tiredly. Reid stiffened, just from the slight warning tone in Gideon's voice and Gideon made a mental note to slow down. To be calm. Not to put the boy on alert. Spencer Reid was viewing everyone as a threat right now, apparently.

"Um, the fish then, please," Reid said so softly it was almost painful. The stewardess nodded and said something about that being an excellent choice, and then offered him a selection of juices or soda pops to drink.

"Um... do you have_ Pepsi_?"

Gideon ground his teeth together, but remained silent. Reid knew they didn't have _Pepsi_ because the woman had just listed all the sodas.

"We have_ Coke_." The woman said brightly. Gideon told himself to remain silent.

"You probably serve only Coke products, right? Are the juices _Minute-Maid_ Juices? They probably _are_..."

"I'm not really sure, honey," She said, and laughed. She repeated the list of sodas again.

"I guess... I guess I'll have a_ Sprite_." Reid said after a long moment. "And a straw, please."

"Can I get you a coloring book? Some crayons?" The woman asked cheerily after handing Reid his meal and his drink.

"No, that's okay. Thank you. Could I go see the pilot, though?" Reid asked suddenly, surprising both Gideon and the stewardess. "I saw in a movie once, the kid got to go into the cockpit and..."

"Reid, your_ leg_..." Gideon started and Reid shut his mouth as if a switch had been flipped. Apparently he'd forgotten about the cast.

"Oh, okay. Never mind. Thank you, _anyway_..."

"I can go see if maybe I can scrounge you up a Captain's pin?" the stewardess said in the same bubble-gum bright tone.

"No, that's okay," Reid mumbled, obviously disappointed.

"Okay, then, Honey. You have a good meal..." and she wheeled the cart away. Reid stared at his food for a long moment and then looked over at Gideon, eyes unreadable behind the dark lenses.

"Do you think this fish_ suffocated_ or they just hacked its head clean_ off_?" Reid asked pointedly, jabbing with his fork towards the fish on his plate. Gideon shut his eyes. Shook his head tiredly. The strain and fear and stress of the last few days was starting to catch up with him.

"We don't talk like that at _dinner_, Reid," Gideon said in an even, measured tone. "If you don't want to eat your fish, then _don't_. Eat your vegetables and rice."

"But the fish is lying on_ top_ of the vegetables and rice," Reid argued gloomily, as if the problem surpassed his intellectual abilities by miles. "And I don't even know what _kind_ of fish it is. What if it is _rockfish_? Rockfish can live to be 100 years old or even older depending on the species and..."

"I doubt it's rockfish, Reid. Probably Halibut."

"I feel _sorry_ for Halibut," Reid said, shifting the mass on his plate with his fork gently. "They have strange, ugly eyes- _but also slightly endearing eyes_- and people make _fun of them_..." He trailed off and turned in his seat as much as he could, so his back was to the fish and to Gideon. "I'm not eating_ this_." He snapped.

"Halibut are the_ Joseph Merricks_ of the fish world..." Reid began to talk about Joseph Merrick then, about how he would have been friends with Merrick if he'd been alive back then and how it wasn't _fair_...

"Reid, I didn't know you were a _vegetarian_," Gideon said gently, cutting the boy off before he could fully launch his tirade. In all honesty, he didn't think Reid _was_ a vegetarian, but then again, one could never be sure.

"At home I ate what I_ had_ to eat, but I don't _like_ eating _animal flesh_," Reid said sharply, still looking out the window. Gideon made a mental note of this. McDonald's was out.

"You should really eat _something_, pal." Gideon knew it was true as soon as the words were out of his mouth. Reid's blood sugar was probably crashing, and he was over-tired and irritable. Genius or not, he was still, also, just a ten-year-old child going into foster care, and probably scared and trying to act braver than he actually felt.

"I don't want to eat anything that the halibut _touched_," Reid said fussily. Gideon sighed. What had he been expecting? A little adult? Of course not. Reid was scared and jumpy and felt out of place, and he was dealing with those emotions by sulking and acting like a 4-year-old. _Okay_.

"Fine, I'll eat your fish. Then will you eat some of your food?"

"_Maybe_."

"Reid... if I eat your fish, I want you to eat 4 bites of your vegetables and 4 bites of your rice. Okay?" Gideon felt ridiculous talking to the child prodigy like this, but Reid turned back from the window. Gideon was afraid, for a moment, that Reid would be angry at having been patronized, but the boy only nodded.

"_Okay_."

Gideon smiled tiredly, forked Reid's fish onto his own plate and continued eating. Reid stared at his plate and gently picked his fork back up and took a tentative bite of broccoli.

"I wasn't mad at you earlier, and I'm not mad at you now," Gideon said gently, just in case Reid thought he was in trouble.

Reid was getting jumpy and having grown up with such extreme and constant abuse, it was reasonable to assume the boy would expect anger for perceived faults on his part, or construe anger where there was none. Maybe that was why he was acting so sulkily, so out of character. He'd almost been killed by his father and was still on high alert.

Subconsciously, Gideon had become his father, perhaps, by becoming his legal guardian and on a subconscious level Spencer Reid probably couldn't stand the anticipation of further abuse. Was it possible Reid was- on a level he wasn't even aware of- _trying _to act irritating to tick Gideon off and test the limits of what Gideon was capable of?

That wouldn't be unusual behaviour for a child who had come from severe abuse, boundary-testing like that.

"I know you're not _mad_," Reid said softly, but his voice sounded high and strained. "I'm not _stupid_."

* * *

Reid panicked a bit as they began to descend, his face hidden in his hands again. Unlike when they had loaded, this time they waited until the plane had completely cleared of passengers before getting off. Gideon wheeled Reid into the centre of the Washington Dulles International airport.

"Where are we?" Reid said, sighing. A stupid question, coming from the young genius.

"This is Dulles, Virginia. We're about 30 miles from Quantico, in case you're curious."

"I thought Dulles International was located in Chantilly, Virginia, about 26 miles from Washington, DC..."

"Reid... I am _tired_." Gideon said tiredly.

"Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport is _closer_ to Quantico," Reid informed his foster father. "27 miles approximately."

"Yes, but I don't_ live_ in Quantico," Gideon said simply. He didn't want to argue with Reid, and that's what it sounded like Reid wanted to do.

"Where do you live _again_?"

"Washington, DC," Gideon said with a sigh. He already knew Spencer Reid knew exactly where he lived, and probably more about the District of Columbia than he, himself, did.

"Oh. How far away are you from _Quantico_?"

"Not that far. About 40 minutes to an hour depending on traffic. But I won't be going to work when you are with me, remember?"

"Is it true that the entire town of Quantico is the only town in America surrounded by the United States Marine Corps?"

"I guess," Gideon said.

They only had their carry-ons so they didn't have to wait in the baggage claim. Gideon wheeled Reid out into the night and hailed a taxi.

"How far from this airport is Washington, DC?" Reid said.

"Maybe a 15 minute drive. _Why_?"

Reid shrugged. A taxi pulled up and Gideon put Reid's brakes on and went over to speak to the driver. The man nodded and got out of the driver's side and opened the back door. Gideon picked Reid up and out of his chair and gently carried him over to the taxi and placed him inside, making sure the boy was comfortable, before returning to the abandoned wheelchair. He folded it up quickly and dumped it in the trunk, then closed Reid's door and got into the passenger seat.

"Where to?" the cabbie asked. Gideon gave him the address in DC and leaned back. Closed his eyes. Tried to remember if the main guest room was okay for Reid.

It was clean, and the bed was made. There was a desk, a small clothes dresser, a large bookcase that was more or less empty, a large four-poster bed with a blue and white wavy-lined duvet, a bedside table with a lamp with a navy blue shade. There was a fake oil painting of a schooner in a storm on the Atlantic above the bed, all a bit prosaic, really, and a few ships in bottles on shelves bolted to the walls.

The room was pretty bland and non-specific except for the nautical theme Gideon had half-heartedly imparted on it, but they'd have time to decorate it to Reid's liking later... _just not tonight_. All Jason Gideon wanted to do was get Reid home, maybe give the kid a bath, and go to sleep. Maybe even skip the bath.

They drove in silence for a while before Gideon realized Reid was completely silent.

"You feeling okay, buddy?" Gideon asked. He was tired himself. Reid muttered something that could have passed for "Yeah."

"I was thinking that you could have the guest room on the main floor. It's the biggest," Gideon said, trying to sound enthusiastic. Now that a lot of the strain and fear and stress of Reid's ordeal was winding down, the exhaustion was setting in. With a vengeance.

"Okay," Reid said blandly, in response to Gideon's suggestion of rooms.

By the time they pulled up outside Gideon's house, Reid was fast asleep. Gideon paid the driver, telling the man to keep 10 dollars as a tip, and got out of the front seat. He unfolded Reid's chair and went back for Reid. Reid shrieked again when Gideon scooped him up, a high pitched rabbit-being-killed scream similar to the noise he'd made on the plane when Gideon had gently moved his hand, and Jason Gideon wondered if perhaps this wasn't going to become a new trend, this hyper-aroused startle reflex.

The kid was already showing most of the signs of Acute Stress Disorder. Not unexpectedly, of course, but it was still unnerving to watch, and Gideon knew that, if left untreated, ASD could and probably would morph into PTSD.

That last attack had simply been too violent, too brutal.

Reid was trembling lightly in Gideon's arms, his entire body vibrating.

"Hey, buddy, it's just me. _Gideon_. We're home."

"At your home?" Reid asked dazedly. Gideon nodded.

"I am just going to go get our bags from the trunk, okay?"

Reid nodded and seemed to shiver into his hooded sweatshirt. Gideon smiled gently and eased Reid into his chair and retrieved the bags. He sat them down on the driveway and closed the trunk, hitting it lightly with his palm. The taxi slowly pulled out of the driveway in a cloud of dust.

Gideon retrieved Reid's suitcase and handed it to him, hooked the straps of his own bag over the handles of Reid's wheelchair and wheeled Reid up the drive and into the house.

Reid was silent and absorbing.

"You can take the glasses off now, pal," Gideon said when they were inside. The house was dark and Gideon moved slowly, turning on lamps. Reid shivered a bit but gently eased the glasses off and put them back in their case.

"This is the main floor," Gideon said. "Do you want to try wheeling yourself around?"

"W-what if I break something?"

"I don't think you will. It's a pretty big house. And tomorrow I can put anything breakable on the small tables away."

Reid nodded slightly and wheeled himself into the living room slowly, stopping as Gideon pointed out objects of potential interest. He showed Reid the ground floor bathroom and the kitchen and the small room he used as an office while at home. The dining room. Finally he showed Reid his room, the largest guest room.

"The decorating scheme is pretty bad, I know, but we can change the bedding and put up posters... anything you want," Gideon said tiredly, not able to stifle the yawn that escaped. He wanted to fall asleep right then, and based on the way Spencer's eyes were flickering, the sentiment was shared.

"_Okay_," Reid said groggily.

"Is there anything we need to do tonight?" Gideon asked the young boy.

Reid wheeled himself over to the bed and hoisted himself onto it. He pulled his suitcase up onto the bed and looked through it, pulled out a flashlight and a book and gently placed these two items within easy reach on the bedside table. Then he pulled out his nightlight and showed it to Gideon. It was a Star Trek night light, shaped to look like the U.S.S. Enterprise.

"Could we plug this in the wall?" Reid asked shyly, unable to meet Gideon's eyes. Gideon made another mental note. When Reid had lived at the village he'd had a nightlight, but apparently he still needed one. Spencer Reid, at ten, was afraid of the dark.

"No problem. Anything else?"

Reid pulled out a pair of pyjamas. They were two-piece and ordinarily would have fit Reid, but not with the cast on...

Reid realized this fact and looked upset. "I need _these_ pyjamas to sleep in. These _or_ my blue and white striped ones," He showed Gideon another pair.

"How about you wear the top part, and leave the hospital pyjama bottoms on for now?" Gideon said cheerfully, more brightly than he felt.

Reid shook his head stubbornly, but then he tossed the pyjamas aside and pulled out a large T-shirt; a large Star Trek t-shirt featuring an image of Data's face.

"Can I wear _this _to bed with my _Mr. Spock_ boxer shorts?" the little boy asked eagerly. Gideon nodded immediately. Reid could wear a Batman Halloween costume to bed for all he cared, as long as it fit and the kid actually _slept_. Reid nodded and gently put the t-shirt and boxer shorts aside, and dug through the rest of his suitcase, through the pressed shirts and sweater vests and pants that wouldn't fit over his cast.

He pulled out the zip-lock baggy with his toothbrush and soap and laid it on top of the T-shirt and boxers. Then returned to digging through the suitcase again.

He finally looked up at Gideon with wide, sad eyes.

"She_ forgot_ to put him in!" Reid said, eyes filling with tears. He picked the suitcase up and let the rest of the clothes fall onto the bed. "She_ forgot_!" Tears were threatening to fall.

"What did she forget, buddy?" Gideon asked tenderly.

"_Moogie_," Reid said in a choked voice, and ducked his head away. "He's my bear... I think he is a bear, I was never sure. He has crossed-eyes, _Strabismus_, and his nose is misaligned and he is ugly. Ugly, but cute at the same time. Like a Halibut fish. But I_ need_ him at _night_..."

So Moogie was Spencer Reid's stuffed animal. Gideon wondered why he had never heard of this Moogie at the village, or in the hospital. Why it was such a big deal _now_.

Gideon's mind raced. He didn't have children of his own, and he didn't have _any_ stuffed animals hanging around the house. Nothing to even serve as a _substitute_ for one night.

"How about early tomorrow we go to the toy store and pick out _another_ Moogie..."

"There is only _one_ of him. He's _home-made_. My mom made him..."

"I could phone her," Gideon said, hoping he sounded encouraging. He wanted to be understanding and patient, he really did, but right now he was so tired, he could barely see straight.

"Do you think she would send him? By Fed Ex maybe?"

"Maybe. I'll phone her tomorrow, okay, Reid?"

"What if... what if my father_ hurts_ Moogie? Now that I am gone?"

Jason Gideon stared at the young genius for a long moment, lost for words, before finally shaking his head.

"I'll make sure to phone her first thing in the morning, okay, pal?"

Reid nodded, but he looked terribly worried.

"Do...Do you need help changing, Reid? Or... do you think you can handle it by yourself?"

"_Myself_," Reid said simply, but he was still staring at the bedspread desolately.

Gideon turned and slowly walked out of the room. He was closing the door when Reid's small, young voice filled the air.

"Gideon?"

"Yeah, buddy?"

"Could... do you think you could read me a story before I go to sleep tonight?"

Gideon shut his eyes tiredly, knowing that Reid couldn't see him.

"Uh... yeah. _Okay_," He tried to keep the weariness out of his voice. "But how about a short one tonight, okay?"

"Okay," Reid said tiredly.

Gideon nodded to himself and stalked to the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee.

* * *

That's the end of chapter five, **please review**. Thanks for reading, and remember to check out the music vid (the url is listed on my profile page, or you can type in "lexikalfanfic" in quotations in the youtube search engine and click on the vid entitled "losing my religion". Take care!


	6. Chapter 6: Night Terror

**Title:** Losing My Religion by Lexikal (Chapter Six)  
**Rating:** M for graphic violence against a child and language (in the first chapter).  
**Fandom:** Criminal Minds  
**Summary:** After two years away from his father and his father's violent rages, Spencer Reid, now ten, is returned home. Spencer has changed... but has William Reid?

**Fan Fic Music Video Note**: I decided to make a fan fic music video for this fic, to make it clearer for myself the sort of relationship I wanted little Reid and Gideon to develop. I used clips from the movie "Martian Child" because Bobby Coleman looks so much like I think a young Spencer Reid would (never mind the way he dresses and the amazing facial expressions!) and John Cusack, to my surprise, COULD pass as a young Gideon (Cusack is thinner in the face, but looks strikingly similar, actually). The vid, obviously, doesn't show Reid beaten up the way he was in this story because those clips simply didn't exist, but I did add some clips from "Radio Flyer" to suggest past physical abuse. If you are interested in watching the video, please go to YouTube and type in "lexikalfanfic" (in quotations) and click on the video entitled "_Losing my Religion Criminal Minds Fan Fiction Music Video_". Happy watching (and reading)!

**Author's Note:** Reid is going into foster care, but his new foster father is Jason Gideon. **Please note that this story takes place in 1990 and in that sense, it is not AU. **Hotch and the younger members of the team aren't on the team yet (Hotch would be about 19 or 20 or so in 1990, if he was in high school in 1987 as the show claims), everyone else is a teen or younger. The only other team member besides Gideon who is active at the BAU in this fic in 1990 is David Rossi. Also, while it's mentioned on the show that Gideon has a son ("Stephen"), I wrote this story as if Gideon was never married and has no children of his own. Hope none of you mind.

Like always, if you suspect a child may be being abused or neglected, please phone 1-800-4-A-CHILD or your local police or child protective agency. Also, if you like this, hate it or are indifferent, **please review** and tell me what or what didn't work for you. Thanks!

* * *

Gideon read Reid the only book in the house that seemed even partially appropriate for children, an old copy of Grimm's fairy tales he'd had since_ he_ had been a boy. Reid lay on top of his covers, holding onto a pillow, eyes closed. When his breathing became rhythmic and Gideon was certain the child was asleep, Gideon kissed him on the forehead, mildly pleased to feel the soft peach-fuzz texture of new hair growing back.

"_Gid...yun_?" Reid murmured, half asleep.

"Yeah, buddy. It's me. _Good night_." And he left the room and closed the door. He stopped outside for a moment, waiting. Opened the door again and stood for a long moment staring at the child. Reid's face was still horribly bruised, and he had obviously been through a hellish ordeal, but in sleep his features were calmer, more peaceful. Gideon smiled slightly and left the door open, just a crack. Made sure the U.S.S. Enterprise nightlight was on and trudged off to the shower.

He walked down the hall and up the stairs, stripping his clothes under the heat lamp as the shower heated up. He just wanted to wash and then dive into bed. When the shower was steaming he got in and let the strain of the last few days ease away under the pressure of the hot water.

He thought over the plane trip and Reid's behaviour, and scrabbled at his skin with the soap, anger filling him to his very core at the thought of what had been done to that child. Then, of course, there would be the housing inspection, and he'd have to take Reid shopping for clothes that were comfortable and that the boy could actually wear over his cast and dress himself in. Not to mention the dentist visits, and the hospital had said something about having his eyes checked because of the corneal detachment in one of his eyes.

Not to mention a series of medical check-ups that Reid was probably going to balk at the mere mention of, and the social worker had said something about getting Spencer a child therapist to talk through his "ordeal" with. Reid, he knew, was going to flip when he heard that.

Gideon sighed wearily and rinsed the soap off, before quickly shampooing his hair, and then shaving. He stepped out into the steamy bathroom and turned on the fan, wiping the mirror with a hand towel before picking up his toothbrush.

* * *

Jason Gideon woke up to the sound of frenzied screaming. He bolted upright in bed, gasping, and looked at his digital bedside clock. It was 3:00 in the morning.

"_Shit_," Gideon said tiredly and scrambled out of bed. Reid was still screaming, high-pitched, terrified noises like the type he imagined children might make while being tortured by sadistic UnSubs. The only difference was, for most of the cases Gideon had worked, the children he dealt with were dead by the time he got to them. He only imagined their screams- he didn't have to hear them first hand. "_Shitshitshitshitshit_..." Gideon ran down the hall and took the stairs two at a time.

He burst into the boy's room and turned the bedside table lamp on. Reid's eyes were open but the pupils were very dark, very wide. His hands were gripping one of the pillows in front of his chest tightly, the knuckles actually white. He wouldn't stop screaming.

"_Reid_!" Gideon called sharply, hoping to wake the kid up. He wasn't absolutely certain, but this looked like a night terror. "_Spencer_!"

Reid continued to scream, immobile leg lying uselessly on the bed. Reid scrambled backwards and then fell off the bed entirely, crashing with a loud thump on the carpeted floor. Gideon was at his side almost instantly, but falling onto the ground apparently was enough. Spencer was awake.

He gazed up at Jason Gideon with wide eyes and then burst into tears, his hands raw and pink from his fall.

"Hey! Shhh..._hey_. _Reid._ Come on, Pal... It's _okay_..."

"What happened?" Reid choked out, trying to talk between his tears.

"I think you had a nightmare. But you're okay _now_." Gideon scooped him up and carried him around the room the way he would a toddler. For a ten-year-old Spencer Reid was extremely small and light, even with the cast on his leg.

"It's okay, buddy, it's okay..." Gideon murmured. Reid was clinging to Gideon's neck like a baby orang-utan, as if afraid to be put back down. "You just had a bad dream, Reid, that's all. It's okay, now, you're all right. _Shhhh, come on, deep breaths, slow your breathing down, pal_..."

"I don't want... to go back... to _sleep_..." Reid whined, and buried his face in Gideon's night shirt. Gideon nodded gently and walked the boy into the living room and sat him gently on the couch. He got the boy a blanket and covered him up, turned the television on and passed Spencer Reid the remote control.

"Where...where are you_ going_?"

"I'm just going to the kitchen to put on some coffee. Do you want something to drink? Some hot chocolate?"

"I don't want to sleep, Jason." Reid repeated, and his lower lip trembled. Gideon nodded. If the kid was dreaming about the attack, no wonder he wanted to stay conscious. Gideon had expected some reaction like this- nightmares, panic attacks, night terrors, exaggerated startle reflexes. All common symptoms of trauma in children, as well as adults. But he hadn't expected a night terror of this calibre so soon.

In some ways, it was a good sign. It meant that Reid felt comfortable enough around him to actually panic and let down his defences, subconsciously or not. He hadn't, to Gideon's knowledge, had nightmares or night terrors in the hospital. But it also meant that the next few weeks, or months, were most likely going to be really tough- for both of them.

Gideon left Reid with the television on and went into the kitchen. He pulled the coffee from the freezer and quickly spooned grounds into the filter before turning the machine on; then he set the kettle to boil for Reid's hot chocolate.

When he came back to the living room with the drinks, Reid was curled around his pillow, snuggling into the blanket Gideon had thrown over him.

"Want to talk about it?" Gideon said gently, and placed Reid's hot chocolate on a coaster on the glass coffee table. Reid stared over at Jason Gideon with haunted, ancient eyes- eyes that had no place in a child's face- and shrugged.

"I don't know. I just want to _forget_..."

"But you can't, can you?"

They'd had many nights like this, talking about memories, when Reid had been at the village; Reid asking Gideon question after seemingly endless question. Why did some people abuse their children, and not others? Why did his father abuse him? If he, Reid, had kids someday, would he turn out like his father? Gideon was used to these talks. But always, even at the village, Reid had steered the conversations away from actual episodes of abuse, kept the topics to more general conversations, nothing relating to actual attacks. Nothing _too_ personal.

"Do you remember the nightmare?" Gideon said softly, and took a sip of his coffee. He was still achingly tired, but he'd known when he applied to foster Spencer Reid that late nights and hard talks were going to be part of the package. Reid shrugged.

"Was it... was it about the attack?" Gideon asked, deciding not to mince words. Reid's face screwed up and he exhaled loudly and reached over for his hot chocolate.

"Sort of. I don't really remember. A monster was chasing me. Trying to kill me. It was trying to pull my teeth out with pliers, and when I wouldn't let it, it wanted to iron me flat, like a _shirt_..." Reid was rambling. Gideon nodded, getting the symbolism instantly. Reid was reliving the attack in a very obvious- albeit symbolic- way.

"You know who the monster was, don't you, Reid?" Gideon asked the young boy earnestly. Reid nodded and shifted uneasily, staring at his feet.

"My _Dad_..."

"Yeah. That would be my bet," Gideon said, smiling sadly.

"_Gideon_?" Reid asked, slightly apprehensively.

"What, buddy?"

"I..uh..." Reid trailed, and his cheeks began to turn pink. Gideon raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"I need to uh..._you know_..._pee_." Reid implored softly. Gideon nodded and got up out of his chair. Carried the boy to the washroom and stood him up gently in front of the toilet, turning as Reid fiddled with his pants and relieved himself.

"Done?"

"Yeah," Reid sounded relieved; both figuratively and literally. Gideon picked the child back up and carried him back into the living room. He set Reid back down and turned the TV off.

"Reid, we're going to have to go to sleep. We have things to do tomorrow..."

"_But_-"

"There is a guest room right across from my bedroom. You can sleep there if you think that would make you feel more comfortable?" Gideon offered.

"Unless you can come with me in my dreams, I don't think it will work."

"Well, another option is that you can sleep on the sofa down here tonight, with the TV on. Do you think that might help?"

"I don't know..._ maybe_..."

"Why don't we try that?" Gideon said tiredly. Reid shrugged and seemed to think about it. He finally nodded.

"What if I have another nightmare?" Reid asked nervously as Gideon moved around, making the boy comfortable.

"Then we deal with it when it happens. Look... Reid... do you want me to get you a bucket? Just in case you need to... _you know_... during the night?"

Reid turned almost scarlet, but nodded. Reid was scared of banging into anything with his wheelchair, Gideon knew, and the boy would probably just hold it until morning without a bucket. Gideon smiled and nodded and went to the bathroom. He came back with a bucket that smelled heavily of bleach, a bucket he usually reserved for stomach bugs.

"Okay, you have the remote control. Your bucket. Pillows, a blanket... anything else?"

"Are the lights going to be on or off?" Spencer asked worriedly.

"I was thinking off, but we can leave them on or dim them, if you want..."

"Can...can you get my book from my bedroom? The one on the night table?"

Gideon nodded and went to the guest room. The book had fallen on the floor, and a sealed envelope fell out when Gideon picked it up. Gideon read the front of the envelope: _To my baby, Spencer. Love forever, Mom. _Gideon sighed tiredly and placed the envelope on the bedside table and brought the book back out to Spencer. It was a collection of poetry by Robert Frost.

"Is this the book you wanted? I think there were two or three others in that heap of clothing you upturned looking for Moogie," Gideon said kindly. Reid nodded.

"Lights on, off or dimmed?"

"Ideally it should be completely dark for the body to produce-"

"Reid, how do you want the lights?" Gideon asked patiently.

"Dimmed, I guess. Is that okay?"

Gideon nodded and dimmed the lights. Reid had all but muted the television and had found a science fiction station that was playing old _Star Trek_ re-runs.

Jason Gideon watched the little boy for a moment, smiling at his small, tilted nose, large forehead, large, doe-eyes. The way his lips were twitching as he smirked and silently mouthed lines he'd obviously memorized by heart.

Gideon leaned over and kissed Spencer Reid for the second time that night on the top of the head.

"Night, buddy. Don't stay up too late watching television."

"Night, Gideon..." Reid said, obviously distracted by the science fiction show. Gideon smiled and shook his head and walked away.

Reid watched him leave, waiting until he heard Gideon's footsteps fade to nothingness. He heard the upstairs bathroom toilet flush and the door close, and then more footsteps. He heard another door open, and then close. Jason Gideon had gone back to bed.

Spencer Reid turned off the television and reached over. He grabbed his flashlight and turned it on and then grabbed his book of Frost poetry, and turned it to a well-worn, dog-eared page. He knew this poem by heart, of course, but somehow, it was more comforting to read the words straight from the page.

Reid read most of the poem silently, and then, softly, the final stanza, his voice wavering with emotion: _"The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep."_

_

* * *

_

That's it for chapter 6, I realize it's short. I am really tired these days (not sure why) so short chapters are going to be on the menu for a while. Hope you liked this. -Lexikal


	7. Chapter 7: Shopping

**Title:** Losing My Religion by Lexikal (Chapter Seven)  
**Rating:** M for graphic violence against a child and language (in the first chapter).  
**Fandom:** Criminal Minds  
**Summary:** After two years away from his father and his father's violent rages, Spencer Reid, now ten, is returned home. Spencer has changed... but has William Reid?

**Fan Fic Music Video Note**: I decided to make a fan fic music video for this fic. If you are interested in watching the video, please go to YouTube and type in "lexikalfanfic" (in quotations) and click on the video entitled "_Losing my Religion Criminal Minds Fan Fiction Music Video_". Happy watching (and reading)!

**Author's Note:** Reid is going into foster care, but his new foster father is Jason Gideon. **Please note that this story takes place in 1990 and in that sense, it is not AU. **

Like always, if you suspect a child may be being abused or neglected, please phone 1-800-4-A-CHILD or your local police or child protective agency. Also, if you like this, hate it or are indifferent, **please review** and tell me what or what didn't work for you. Thanks!

**Additional Note: **I am dealing with some disorienting neurological symptoms right now that are really screwing up my memory and ability to focus. I am trying to remember each story and write it linearly but if you find plot holes, please pm me or try not to let them bother you.

* * *

"Good morning," Gideon said with a yawn as he wandered downstairs. It was a quarter to ten and he'd just gotten up. Reid shifted on the couch and stretched. The television was still on, but cartoons were airing. Reid's eyes fluttered open and he made a noise of acknowledgment, before finally rubbing his eyes and sitting up.

"_Morning_," Reid mumbled and flicked the television off. Gideon stumbled into the kitchen and put the coffee pot on- he had a feeling the coffee pot was going to be seeing a lot of action while Spencer Reid was here- and called to the boy from the kitchen.

"You want anything special for breakfast?"

Reid, apparently, was still half-asleep or else had already gotten used to the idea of Gideon's home being his. "Like _what_?" Reid called back groggily. Gideon searched through the fridge, looking at food, sniffing the odd package.

"We've got eggs, bacon, ham, frozen waffles... there is milk and cereal..."

"What_ kind_ of cereal?" Reid called from the living room sleepily. "Do you have _Cocoa Puffs_?"

"No," Gideon called back, trying to keep the laugh out of his voice. He didn't have to check to know that he didn't have Cocoa Puffs.

"_Trix_?"

Gideon grinned and walked back out into the living room. "Do I _look_ like I eat cereal that has a cartoon character on the box?" Gideon asked the young prodigy with a chuckle. Reid shifted and hunched his shoulders in an _I-don't-know _gesture.

"You know," Gideon continued, "that sugary cereal is really bad for you, anyway."

"It _tastes_ good," Reid insisted, as if taste were the only factor when making nutritional decisions.

"Fine, we'll pick some up at the grocery store later. But for breakfast right_ now_, what do you want?"

"I guess...frozen waffles? Or wait! Do you have Pop Tarts?"

"Frozen waffles we have. No Pop Tarts."

"Pop Tarts are _good_," Reid said seriously and snuggled back into the blankets and shut his eyes. Gideon rolled his eyes and lightly shook Reid. "Come on, enough of that! It's almost ten in the morning, Reid. We're getting up now."

"Still _tired_..." Reid whined, sounding like a typical ten-year-old to such a degree that Gideon had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing out loud. Gideon walked back into the kitchen to make Reid his waffles.

"Yeah, well, deal with it... you want orange juice or milk to drink?" He called nonchalantly, turning the stove on to make himself bacon and eggs.

"_Coffee_. Hey, Gideon... am I going to be going to school_ here_?"

"_Juice it is_," Gideon said softly, and poured the boy a glass of O.J.

"Gideon, did you hear me? Will I be going to school?"

Gideon didn't know the answer to that question yet. Reid was 10 years old and already in the tenth grade, so he could easily afford to miss some time while he got back on his feet. Literally, in this case.

"Why? Do you want to go to school_ here_?" Jason Gideon called as he dropped some margarine into the frying pan and tilted it to coat the pan.

"I don't know," Reid called back. "Just curious."

"We'll both know more when the social worker does the home interview in a few days," Gideon responded, and plunged two waffles into the toaster for Reid, watching as the toaster elements turned red.

"Hey _Gideon_! What are we going to do _today_?" Reid shouted back. Gideon shook his head tiredly, smiling despite himself.

"Reid, can you wait until I am finished with breakfast before we continue with this conversation?"

"_Why_?" the ten-year-old hollered loudly. Gideon did chuckle then.

"Why do you_ think_?" Gideon called back.

"I don't know; that's why I asked _you_!"

"Reid, is your wheelchair near the sofa?"

There was a moment of silence as Spencer Reid apparently looked around. Then: "Yeah!"

"Do you think you could maybe go and get dressed, buddy?"

"I _never_ get dressed _before _breakfast!" Reid hollered back loudly, as if the very concept were absurd. _Wear a tinfoil hat on my head? My god, man, have you cracked right up? Shall I fetch you a doctor?_

Gideon sighed and poured himself a cup of coffee, tasted it, and then added a few large spoonfuls of white sugar. He was going to need a lot of caffeine and sugar to keep up with Reid, if this was Reid less than ten minutes after waking up.

* * *

"What are we_ doing_ here again?" Spencer Reid asked for what must've been the eighteenth time in the last hour. Jason Gideon sighed tiredly. He was starting to ask himself the same thing.

"Getting you clothes, Reid," He said blandly, for the eighteenth time.

"But I already _have_ clothes," Reid argued, wheeling himself around the store and looking at the t-shirts hanging in the boy's section with a rather nonplussed expression on his face. "What's wrong with my _other_ clothes?"

Gideon bit his tongue. Besides the fact that all of Reid's clothing was tailored and would set the boy-genius even further apart? Make him stand out more? _Nothing_. Nothing really. Oh, it wasn't just the fact that Reid looked like a little professor in his cardigans and suits and button up starched shirts and ties- that was actually kind of _cute_- but the boy couldn't wear his pants, not over the cast, and he had trouble with the buttons and inevitably Gideon found himself having to fix Reid's handiwork. Reid seemed to have trouble remembering which buttons went into which holes. It was a strange quirk Gideon had noticed a few times now, and stored away.

When he added the trouble with doing up buttons with Reid's messy handwriting, poor social skills, long monologues, trouble taking turns while talking and overly adult conversations a picture was developing: Jason Gideon was pretty sure Spencer Reid suffered from Asperger's Syndrome. How he'd managed to get into high school given the obvious symptoms he displayed- and not be tested for a pervasive developmental disorder- boggled Gideon's mind.

"My Mom says that buying clothing like_ this_," Reid swept one hand out to indicate the entire store, "Encourages child labour in sweat shops overseas." The last part of this was said a bit too loud for Gideon's comfort. Gideon sighed.

Reid's mother, also, had only packed her son two pairs of underwear and two pairs of socks. Gideon had thrown a few bags of socks into the basket, then a few 6 packs of boys' briefs with Ninja Turtles on them. Luckily, Reid hadn't said anything about either the socks or the underwear. So, small miracles did indeed exist...

"You can't wear your regular pants. Not with your cast on. We've gone over this."

"But my shirts and sweaters are fine..."

"It's _summer_, Reid." Gideon said, trying to be patient. "You can wear your sweaters in the _winter_."

"I'll still be here in the winter?" Reid asked, eyebrows rising in curiosity.

"If I have anything to say about it, you will be," Gideon said honestly, smiling broadly when Reid broke into a full grin.

"Okay, Gideon," Reid said happily, pronouncing his name as "Gid-Yun" again. That was becoming a trend with Reid, and Gideon wished, just for a half a second, that Reid's name was more than one syllable so that he could butcher it, too.

"So sweat-pants... just pick a colour, okay?" Gideon coaxed. He hated shopping as much as Reid, but for different reasons. Reid was perplexed and felt embarrassed and perhaps bored.

Gideon just found shopping a waste of time, and answering Reid's endless questions was starting to become a little draining: Why are these t-shirts more expensive if those are 100% cotton and these aren't? Just because of the image on the front? Why do these pants have drawstrings? Why don't people just wear belts? Why are all the girl shirts pink and purple and white and the boy shirts black, gray and blue? How come I have never heard of these cartoons? Have any books been written about these animated characters? How many square feet make up this mall, and what is the difference space-wise between a mini-mall and a regular mall? Who are the _Ghostbusters_? Was Walt Disney a Nazi, I think I read that somewhere, or at least that he was a Nazi sympathizer? What do you think, Gid-yun?

"How about all gray?" Reid said and Gideon shrugged and dumped 6 pairs of gray sweat-pants into the basket.

"You might want to spend longer picking out t-shirts... and what about a hat? Ball cap?"

"What _sort_ of t-shirts? Can we go to the museum and get the ones with the constellations on them that glow in the dark?"

Gideon hung his head. He wanted to say something sarcastic like: _Sure, Reid, no problem, we'll drive down there, park, waste another hour, at least, only to discover that you think there is something wrong with the way the constellations were depicted and then we'll have to come back here anyway._.. but he kept his mouth shut. For one, if he said what he thought, he knew Reid would take it at face value. Reid didn't "get" sarcasm. Secondly, on the off-chance Reid did pick up on the sarcasm; his feelings would probably be hurt. Neither scenario was good.

"If you don't care about images on t-shirts, how about we just save time and get them _here_?" Gideon said, hoping Reid would bite. Reid shrugged.

"I am not sure I can get any of these because I don't know who any of these characters _are_... what if they are cartoon representations of _Pol-Pot_?" Reid stared up at his foster father with sceptical eyes.

"They're _not_, Reid," Gideon said tiredly. God help him.

"Did you know that in the book, _Animal Farm_ by George Orwell, many of the animal characters represented historical figures of that era and...?"

"Yes, Reid, I did, but these are_ just_ cartoons. Not lampoons." Gideon cut him off.

"Did you know that in _Watership Down_ by Richard Adams, the rabbits and hares refer to a disease called 'The White Blindness' which is actually the myxoma virus or Myxomatosis, a disease which was introduced to Australia in 1950 in an effort to control the rabbit populations..."

"Reid, you said you liked _The Ninja Turtles_, right? You know them?" Gideon had no doubt that Spencer Reid could probably talk about Myxomatosis all day... or what felt like all day, at any rate.

Reid nodded, smiling just a little.

"I had two friends back at home, Jake and Peter, and they introduced me to the show- they had a bunch of action figures and while I never really understood the purpose of playing with the action figures, I did actually-"

"How about _Ninja Turtle_ T-shirts? And I think I saw some _Star Trek_ ones?"

"Yeah, okay..." Reid wheeled himself back over to the t-shirts and began to look through the racks. Finally he dropped three or four identical t-shirts featuring the U.S.S. Enterprise into the basket and two identical Ninja Turtles shirts, stating simply, when Gideon stared at him, that the other designs weren't to his liking.

Gideon added a few basic colour t-shirts and striped shirts, and a few more hooded sweatshirts. He pulled a generic baseball cap, blue, off the rack and tossed it in the basket.

Reid was starting to squirm in his chair as they neared the check-out. Gideon paid for the clothes and wheeled Reid towards the food court. The boy hadn't eaten since breakfast and he looked pale and a bit sweaty. And then, feeling stupid, Gideon realized that Reid was overdue by at least an hour for his pain meds.

He'd be on pain medication for his broken femur for at least a few more weeks, and he was the type of kid to forget about pain until he was practically writhing in it. Gideon ordered them each burgers and shakes and handed Reid his pain medication, apologizing for forgetting.

"I forgot too," Reid said as he gulped the pills down. Gideon nodded a bit sadly and made another mental note: he couldn't count on Reid, not 100%, to tell him when he was in pain. The boy was simply too easily distracted.

* * *

Because Reid's cast extended from his toes to his chest on one side and from his chest to his knee on the other, bathing presented something of an issue. There was a hole between the legs and buttocks of the cast so Reid could use the washroom, but other than that, Reid was rigid. Gideon had been told that with femur breaks, it was generally only children who had casts, and the type of cast Reid was in was called a Spica cast. It was cumbersome at best and Reid kept complaining about not being able to sit up properly- even his wheelchair reclined slightly, and Gideon would have to get up at least two times a night to move the boy, change his position. Last night he hadn't had to wake himself up, because Reid had done that for him.

What's more, Reid obviously needed help using the washroom. He had managed to use the small bucket Gideon had provided the night before, but in the future... Gideon yawned and wheeled Reid towards the parking lot. Reid was sleeping faintly, the prescription pain meds having knocked him out. Gideon had already picked up a proper hospital bed pan from a medical supply store while Reid had been out, and asked the pharmacist about the best ways to wash Reid- apparently the boy could only have sponge baths and special care would have to be taken to make sure the cast didn't get wet, or else Reid could develop skin conditions. Gideon shuddered, trying to imagine weeks, if not months, of trying to wash Reid when Reid was prone to recoiling from physical touch.

Gideon also grabbed a few boxes of _Trix_ cereal on his way out of the mall, and took the purchases out to the car. He locked them in the trunk of the car, before picking up Reid and carrying the boy to the front seat, tilting the seat back slightly. He put the wheelchair in the trunk and Reid flickered his eyes open dully as Gideon got back in the driver's side... Reid was just quiet enough now, and drowsy, that maybe this would work.

He was going to take Reid to the Museum... not for a trip, but to buy toys and stuff for his room, maybe a few t-shirts. The pain meds had flattened the boy and made him listless and silent, and Reid's room looked about as child friendly as a typical hospital room. And Jason Gideon doubted that the _Toys R Us_ in the mall would suffice, not by a long shot.

"We going home _now_?" Reid asked tiredly as the car pulled out of the lot.

"I was thinking we could stop at the Museum first, maybe pick up some posters and toys and stuff for your room?"

"Why?" Reid asked, and let his eyes flutter shut. Gideon had decided that "why" was Spencer Reid's favourite word.

"Because your bedroom looks about as inviting as a jail cell, pal, and the Child Services inspection is in a few days..."

"Oh," Reid slurred, licked his lips, and fell back to sleep.

* * *

Gideon stared over at Reid as he drove, amazed. Reid was asleep again, clutching a plush dinosaur to his cheek.

The boy had been unbelievably quiet in the store, given that they'd been in the Museum gift store of all places. He'd blinked and smiled at different things when Gideon held them up, and Gideon had thrown items in the cart quickly, even finding a t-shirt with the constellations that did, indeed, glow in the dark.

He'd added a few t-shirts with dinosaurs, a ball cap that read "_My other planet is Mars_", and then threw in a few life-like models of the human brain and eye for Reid to construct, a few posters (one of the solar system, one of the moon, one a time-line of the earth dating from the first amoebas, one a selection of flags of the world, one a large image of a shark and one the periodic table of elements), and a few board games (_Scrabble_, a computerized version of _Chess_ that would allow Reid to play on his own and _Go_).

He knew he was probably going to end up decorating Reid's room to look like the typical cliché of child genius, but it was so hard _not_ to do that, especially when Reid had few to zero typical ten-year-old interests. Then he found a duvet linen set with images of the planets on them and matching pillow cases and tossed that in the cart as well, and was about to leave when he remembered Moogie.

"Excuse me?" Gideon said as he approached the front desk. The clerk looked up and smiled brightly.

"I was wondering... do you have any plush toys here? I realize this is a Museum gift store but..."

"We have plush dinosaurs, plush microbes and plush birds that actually sing when you press a button..."

"Oh..." Gideon followed the woman to a small area of the store and glanced over the toys before quickly grabbing an olive-green Brachiosaur and throwing it in the cart.

"Plush _microbes_?" Gideon said after a second. The clerk nodded, obviously amused.

"I know. It's weird, right? Little plush toys of viruses and bacteria, with_ faces_... my boyfriend got me the common cold virus for some reason... I'm not sure that's the best sign for a stable future with a guy, are you?"

Gideon smiled.

"Where are those, again?"

The woman pointed to a bin and Gideon retrieved a small plush toy that looked like a deformed tree. The tag read: NEURON in huge letters and the stitched eyes and tiny, out-of-place doleful mouth were just too much. Gideon laughed and added the Neuron plush to his haul, before impulsively grabbing a string of lights called "_planets of the galaxy string-lights_". He pushed the cart through the checkout, not surprised when the balance came to more than 150 dollars. The clerk looked down at Reid slumbering in his chair, over to the huge pile of gifts and back over to Gideon.

"My new _foster_ son," Gideon said by way of explanation. "We decided to decorate his room before the inspection..." Jason Gideon trailed, wondering why he was telling the woman all of this. Was it because of the look she had given him, the uneasy, displeased look? Was it because he, Jason Gideon, _an FBI profiler_, did not want to be confused, not even for a nanosecond, with a child abuser?

The woman nodded and seemed to accept his story.

"Do you need any help getting this stuff out to your car, sir?" She asked, expression softening. Gideon nodded tiredly.

"Thanks; that would be great..."

* * *

End of chapter 7... Next chapter Reid discusses his cast, Gideon tries to wash him, they decorate Reid's room and there is a bit of angst. I hope you guys like this story and that you find my version of little Reid as endearing and adorable (if not annoying!) as I do. **Please review!**


	8. Chapter 8: Burns

**Title:** Losing My Religion by Lexikal (Chapter Eight)  
**Rating:** M for graphic violence against a child and language (in the first chapter and this one).  
**Fandom:** Criminal Minds  
**Summary:** After two years away from his father and his father's violent rages, Spencer Reid, now ten, is returned home. Spencer has changed... but has William Reid?

**Chapter Warning:** This chapter is pretty angsty and talks about past child abuse in a rather upsetting way. Please be aware that I rated this story "M" for chapters like this.

**Fan Fic Music Video Note**: I decided to make a fan fic music video for this fic. If you are interested in watching the video, please go to YouTube and type in "lexikalfanfic" (in quotations) and click on the video entitled "_Losing my Religion Criminal Minds Fan Fiction Music Video_". Happy watching (and reading)!

**Author's Note:** Reid is going into foster care, but his new foster father is Jason Gideon. **Please note that this story takes place in 1990 and in that sense, it is not AU. **

Like always, if you suspect a child may be being abused or neglected, please phone 1-800-4-A-CHILD or your local police or child protective agency. Also, if you like this, hate it or are indifferent, **please review** and tell me what or what didn't work for you. Thanks!

**Additional Note: **I am dealing with some disorienting neurological symptoms right now that are really screwing up my memory and ability to focus. I am trying to remember each story and write it linearly but if you find plot holes, please pm me or try not to let them bother you.

* * *

"Reid, buddy? We're home." Gideon had already unpacked the car and put most of the stuff in Reid's bedroom. He had his wheelchair waiting. Reid blinked and wiped crud from his eyes and gazed up at Gideon. Yawned.

"You still tired?" Gideon asked. Reid nodded slightly and clutched the brachiosaur in front of him. Gideon watched his eyelids tumble shut again and smiled gently. The idea of Reid needing a plush animal at ten was something he hadn't expected, but it was cute. And given the boy's history, it wasn't surprising the kid needed something of a security item.

"You like the brachiosaur, huh?" Gideon said as he picked Reid up, and felt Reid nod a little against his chest.

"I'm glad you got me an herbivore and not a carnivore." Reid slurred tiredly as Gideon deposited him into his chair and wheeled him into the house.

"You picked a name for... him yet?"

Reid was silent for a moment, but because he was exhausted from pain meds or thinking was anybody's guess.

"Jason..." Reid slurred and Gideon almost laughed out loud.

"You named your dinosaur_ Jason_? Why? Because I am so old?"

"You're 35, so you're not old, you're not even middle aged," Reid said. Gideon wheeled Reid into his room and put the brakes on. Reid opened his eyes and blinked.

"So many bags."

Gideon gazed around the guestroom. It definitely wasn't Reid.

"We need to spruce this place up."

"You spent a lot of money on me today," Reid said, sounding almost guilty. Gideon shrugged.

"That's okay. It was stuff you needed."

"Do you want this room to look like a kid's room for the Child Service worker?" Reid pried.

"No. I thought you deserved a room that was..._yours_."

"Oh."

"Do you want something to eat now, or do you want to take a nap or put this stuff away first?" Gideon asked, half-hoping that Reid would ask for a nap. But Spencer Reid was awake now.

"Can we decorate my room?"

"Sure... just let me go put on a pot of coffee," Gideon responded.

* * *

Reid dictated from the chair where he wanted everything to go. He was unaware that Gideon had purchased him half the items that he had; indeed, the child had been nearly out for the count in the Museum.

"You got me an electronic chess game?" Reid asked, looking at the box for a moment before ripping the cardboard open and pulling the game out.

"Yeah. I thought you might like it... just for when I am busy or making meals and you're bored with the television and have read all my books..."

"Thanks!" Reid pressed a few buttons and frowned. "This thing won't turn on."

"That's because I haven't put the batteries in it, yet," Gideon reminded Reid gently. "So, for now, where do you want me to put it?"

"Bookshelf."

Gideon had moved some furniture out of the room and moved things around as per Reid's instructions. The bed was now flush against the wall and the painting of the schooner had been removed. The book case had been moved near the bed, for easy access, Gideon assumed. Gideon had hauled a small desk out of the garage and nailed a corkboard to the wall near the door, right at the level where Reid could pin things up in his wheel chair. The night table had remained, as had the lamp.

The posters were up, except for the poster of the shark, which for some reason, Reid found frightening. The periodic table of elements hung over Reid's bed, the flags of the world was taped to the closet door, the poster of the surface of the moon was tacked over Reid's desk. The string lights of the planets had been hung and dangled across Reid's bed, and the linen had been changed. The room still seemed rather barren to Gideon, lacking the look of a child's room, something put hastily together, but it was still worlds better than it had been that morning. Reid had chosen to put both the brachiosaur-_ Jason_- and the plush neuron on his bed, nuzzled between the pillows and the board games and anatomy models were stacked on the bookshelf, but the bookshelf still looked miserably empty. Reid needed more toys, more books. Stationery. More games. More _stuff_.

When the room was done Gideon showed Reid the bed pan. Reid stared at it and looked away, his cheeks turning pink.

"I got you this because you'll have more privacy that way," Gideon said softly, fully aware of how embarrassed Reid was. Reid nodded but wouldn't make eye contact.

"But it's been a few days since you were washed..." Gideon started, not sure how Reid would respond to this next part.

"I can't have a shower or a bath with this Spica cast on..." Reid said, glancing up to make eye contact with Gideon.

"I know. But you got sponge baths in the hospital, and I'm going to have to wash you..."

"I can do it."

"Reid, you still get fatigued easily. The pain meds make you drowsy, and the cast can't get wet."

"I'm not a _baby_, Gideon. I am ten years old. I can wash _myself_."

"I realize that, and if you weren't in a cast, I'd agree, but you are. This has nothing to do with your age or your competence. You're_ injured_."

"I haven't hit puberty yet, so I am not going to smell. And I haven't grown my hair back yet..." Reid trailed.

"Reid, you need a bath before the worker comes."

"When is that again?" Reid was staring at his lap, hands snaking through each other nervously.

"Morning after tomorrow. You can have a bath tonight, or tomorrow night, your choice, but I figured if we do it tonight, we get everything out of the way today." That wasn't entirely true. Reid had an appointment to see a dentist to have his jaw mapped for dental insertions early Friday morning, the morning after the social worker was to visit.

Reid was still staring at his lap, his cheeks scarlet.

"I don't want you to see me_ naked_." Reid croaked miserably.

"I _won't_ see you naked... you can wash_ that_ part of yourself. I'll just wash your neck and arms and face... hell, Reid, the cast covers most of you..."

"My upper arms aren't in a cast," Reid whispered and Gideon nodded and sat down on Reid's bed. Reid was still in his chair.

"No, they aren't. Any reason you don't... _Reid_?"

Spencer Reid exhaled miserably.

"We're both _guys_, Reid," Gideon said lightly, trying to diffuse the sudden tension that had filled the room like a dark storm cloud. He already knew about all of Reid's injuries, but Reid was- for the most part- in a cast. Something about Gideon seeing his arms of all things had Reid worried. The boy was biting his lip nervously.

"You're going to get _mad_..." Reid trailed, still not making eye contact. Gideon forced his features to remain neutral. _You're going to get mad._ What the hell did that mean?

"Why on Earth would I get mad?" Gideon asked in the same neutral, pleasant tone. As if nothing was the matter. As if the boy in front of him wasn't all shades of colours, hairless and severely wounded.

"You just _will_." Reid said with finality. "Can you pass me my dinosaur?"

"_Jason_?" Gideon asked, but it was more to make noise, to keep the dialogue going. Reid only had one dinosaur.

"_Yeah_." So soft, almost a whisper. Gideon nodded and gently picked the toy up and carried it over to the boy- _his foster son_- and handed it to him. Reid buried his face in the plush animal, and shut his eyes.

"I like the way this dinosaur_ smells_," Reid said, face buried in the toy, obviously trying to change the subject.

"Reid, I promise I won't get angry. No matter what. I _promise_."

"You say that _now_. But you will." A slight tremor had taken over the boy's body, making him shake. Gideon wanted to pick him up and hug him, rock him. Knew instinctively that now wasn't a good time.

"Tell me then," Gideon coaxed. "Tell me why you think that."

But Spencer Reid, apparently, was done talking.

* * *

They ate in silence, more or less, the threat of the bath looming, obviously, over Reid's head. Reid finally pushed his dinner- a bowl of Trix with milk- away, saying he was done.

"Okay. Bath time." Gideon said gently, and began clearing the table. Reid was still, still holding his dinosaur. When Gideon had scraped the plates and put them in the dishwasher he went into Reid's bedroom and pulled out a pair of the gray sweat pants, a pair of fresh underwear and one of Reid's new shirts out of the boy's dresser and took them to the bathroom. He set them on the side of the bathtub along with a towel and filled a bucket with warm water, adding a little bit of body wash, testing the water temperature with his fingers. He got a fresh face cloth from the hall closet and came back for Reid.

Reid's face was in his hands.

"Come on, buddy... it won't take long. It's just a _bath_," Gideon said gently, but his worry was rising. What the hell was the kid hiding? He thought he knew about all of Reid's injuries. Gideon wheeled Reid into the bathroom and gently lifted the boy out of his chair and placed him on the toilet seat. Reid was trembling again.

"See- I already have the water ready? Nice and soapy, used my best body wash."

"How many body washes do you have?" Reid asked dully. Gideon smiled and helped Reid tug off his pants, and then helped him wriggle out of his underpants, quickly covering him with the towel.

Reid began to shake harder when Gideon began to tug the sweatshirt off, and the shaking increased significantly when Gideon helped Reid move his arms through the t-shirt sleeves and pulled the t-shirt from Reid's body.

Gideon stared at the boy for a moment, at his upper arms and shoulders, and forced himself to remain calm. Reid had been terrified he'd get angry, and Reid hadn't been wrong. He was angry. He was _furious_... only not with Reid. He could never be angry with Reid.

Reid shut his eyes again, as if afraid of a blow-up and Gideon forced himself to speak, to be calm.

"You didn't tell me about these, Reid." He said seriously, gently picking up one badly burned arm. Reid's upper arms and shoulders were covered with dozens, if not hundreds, of cigarette burns. Most of them were healed, some were still scabbing over.

"You're mad," Reid squeaked, and his voice was full of so much shame and fear and humiliation that Gideon shut his eyes too. Just for a minute.

"I'm not mad with_ you_," Gideon said finally, knowing that if any of his anger- and he felt lots of anger right now- leaked into his voice, Reid wouldn't be able to differentiate between it. He wouldn't know what anger was reserved for his father, or what was directed at him, and Spencer Reid, obviously, was terrified of anger. With good reason.

Gideon stood up and walked out of the room, got another face cloth and came back. He wet it and wrung it and handed it to Reid.

"You wash yourself, pal. We'll be quick, okay?"

"You're mad, I can tell, Gid-yun."

"Reid..._Spencer_...I am mad, very mad, with your _father_. For hurting you like this. I am not angry with_ you_. You didn't do anything wrong. Do you understand the difference?"

Reid was staring at Gideon with wide, confused eyes. He obviously didn't understand the difference, despite his intellect. Gideon sighed and began to gently wash Reid's burnt arms, being as gentle as he could.

"Reid, _no_ child deserves this. No child deserves to be burned like this, or hurt..."

"He didn't do all of them," Reid blurted out and then looked down suddenly, eyes scrunched tight, not just closed but scrunched tight. As if he expected to be hit.

"What do you mean?" Gideon said slowly, as calmly as he could. Reid's mother? No. No... Reid would have said _something_. And the way Reid was cowering away from him... that was also distressing. He'd assumed Spencer Reid knew he was safe now, knew that he, Jason Gideon, would never strike him. Apparently not.

"You're going to get mad." Reid repeated.

"Reid, what did you mean when you said he didn't do all of them? Your dad didn't make all these burns?"

Reid shook his head miserably. His eyes were shining with barely shed tears.

"Reid... you_ have_ to tell me this. _Who_ did the other ones? Who _else_... _burned you_?"

"He... he said...he said if I did a _couple_ of them he would stop _sooner..._ he said it would be a better lesson if I did some of them _and_..." Reid broke down crying then, begging Jason Gideon for forgiveness. Over and over. _Please don't be mad, Gid-yun._

"Your Dad... _your Dad asked you to burn yourself_? He made you burn _yourself_? Is that what you are telling me?"

Reid nodded miserably through his sobs. Gideon did hug him then, cradling him to his chest, shushing him gently. God. _God._ There were no words for this.

After a few minutes Reid stopped crying and just sat limply on the toilet seat, looking dazed and like he had aged a few decades. He had an old man's eyes in a child's face.

Gideon washed him in silence, careful with the scars. Then his neck, his tear-stained face, his bruised and bald head. Reid washed himself as best he could and Gideon sighed and decided Reid was clean enough. He helped Reid into fresh underwear, then the t-shirt to hide the dreaded burns, and then the sweat pants.

* * *

"Do you want me to read you something?" It was only 7:30 pm, but after the crying spell and the disclosure during his bath, Reid had opted to go to bed early. The nightlight was on and Reid had his flashlight in one hand, dinosaur in the other, pillows supporting his head in a semi-reclining position. The string of planet lights was still on, but other than the nightlight and string light, the room was dim. Perfect for sleeping. Reid shook his head.

"Reid... things will get better. They _will_."

"_Gideon_?"

"Yeah?"

"They said that at the village. My Dad took anger management classes, but things didn't get better. When they make me go back home, next time he gets mad... what if next time..."

"Reid, there is_ never_ going to be a next time. I _promise_ you that."

"He'll kill me when I go home next time." Reid said flatly, voice eerily devoid of emotion. Gideon knew the kid was partly dissociative. How could he not be? He would have his crying spells, and the rest of the time act as if nothing had happened, or talk like a little robot.

"Reid, you're staying with me. You're staying with me until you're safe."

"They wouldn't tell me anything at the hospital. Did my Dad get in trouble?"

Gideon winced. Came over to the boy's bed and sat on the edge of it and reached out. He put a hand on Reid's casted foot and nodded a little.

"He's on probation for a year."

"_Probation_." Reid repeated numbly, as if testing out the word for the first time. "That doesn't mean anything at all."

Gideon wanted to tell the child that he was right, that it meant nothing, not really.

"Reid, it's going to be hard, but Child Services... they want you to see a child psychologist..."

"They think I am _crazy_?" Reid asked sharply, obviously distressed by the very thought.

"_No_. They want to know exactly what happened. What you tell them... when you talk to them, you have to tell them about your father. About _everything_. It's really important, buddy."

Reid was silent for a long time, lost in some nightmare world where fathers beat their children with irons and burned them with cigarettes. Almost killed them and walked away without even doing a week in jail. Gideon knew that if Reid had been scared into a shaking fit at the very idea of his own foster father- whom he knew and respected- seeing his scars, then talking to a stranger would seem nightmarishly terrifying.

"Will you be there with me?" Reid asked finally. Gideon sighed.

"They're going to want to talk to you alone. To make sure I am not influencing you."

"Can my dinosaur be there?"

Gideon smiled sadly. Nodded.

"You sure you don't want a bed time story?" He felt uneasy leaving the boy like this, letting him drift off to sleep with these thoughts and images so fresh and prominent in his mind.

"I'm sure. I just want to sleep, Gid-yun."

"Okay," Jason Gideon got up and walked over to Reid and kissed him on the forehead. "You have your book?"

Reid nodded and flashed Gideon his book of Robert Frost poetry.

"Okay, goodnight, pal..."

He left the door open a crack. It took Jason Gideon a long time to fall asleep that night.

* * *

Hope you liked this instalment. Tired, so I don't know when I will update the next chapter and I have a few other multi-chapters that need to be added to.


	9. Chapter 9: The Letter

**Title:** Losing My Religion by Lexikal (Chapter Nine)  
**Rating:** M for graphic violence against a child and language (in the first chapter and chapter 8 so far)  
**Fandom:** Criminal Minds  
**Summary:** After two years away from his father and his father's violent rages, Spencer Reid, now ten, is returned home. Spencer has changed... but has William Reid?

**Author's Note:** Thanks so much to everyone for all the reviews! You guys make my day every time I get a review!

* * *

Gideon set his clock for 12:30 in the morning, the time he'd get up to move Spencer- it was important, apparently, to reposition the boy several times a night with the Spica cast on. When the alarm went off Gideon stretched, exhausted, and dragged himself out of bed and down the stairs, yawning.

After the drama earlier in the evening he'd almost expected another night terror, or a nightmare, or _something_, but the room was disturbingly quiet as Jason Gideon approached. The door was wide open, the planet string lights still on, the U.S.S. Enterprise night light still brightly lit up in the wall.

Gideon entered the room and glanced over at Spencer's bed. The blankets were ruffled and thrown about. Spencer wasn't there.

Gideon felt his throat constrict with worry. He knew he should have talked to the kid more before letting him go to sleep for the night. A ten-year-old for crying out loud, and he had left him reliving a world of pain because he hadn't wanted to press the issue?

_Relax, Gideon, you asked if he wanted a story, you made yourself available. He wanted to be alone, and you respected that. If you'd pushed the issue, you would have told him you didn't care about his feelings, his desires. You did the right thing._

Gideon walked towards the bathroom, flicking on lights as he walked.

"Spencer?" He called, trying not to sound angry or scared, but simply curious. He checked the bathroom- no Spencer. He even pulled the shower curtain aside to make sure the kid hadn't decided to hide in the bathtub. He went back to the living room, but Spencer wasn't camping out on the sofa. Gideon's fear began to increase. This was ridiculous. They were in a locked house with an alarm, and the kid could barely move himself around, much less walk. Where on earth could he be?

Gideon quickly ran to his den and flung open the door, turned on the lights. No Spencer. He checked under his desk, just in case, but the boy wasn't there.

"Reid! Come on... _where are you_?" Gideon hollered. No response. He ran into the dining room and ducked his head under the table, then into the kitchen. No Spencer. The kid had _evaporated_ into thin air...

And then suddenly he heard it, a low moan; what sounded like heavy breathing. Gideon hunched down near a cupboard under the kitchen sink and gently opened the door. A slice of light cut over Spencer Reid's hunched, desolate form.

Spencer Reid was sitting- _as much as he could sit in his cast_- in the cupboard under the kitchen sink, and Gideon couldn't deny how tiny he was for a ten year old. Not just skinny, but short, too.

"_Reid_?" Gideon asked tenderly, crouching to get a better look at the child. Reid sniffled and turned his head away.

It was hard to see, really, because under the sink was dark, but Reid looked like he'd been crying. He had his flashlight and it had been on when Gideon had opened the door but as he watched, Reid flicked it off with a weary sigh.

"What...What are you doing under there, buddy?" Gideon's voice was a low susurrus.

There was another hitch, almost inaudible. Reid was holding something in his lap... something made of paper. An envelope. And then Gideon remembered it; the envelope that had fallen out of Reid's book of Robert Frost Poetry the night before, after Reid had woken Gideon up screaming bloody murder. The envelope that was, in all likelihood, a letter from Reid's mother.

"Reid, what...what do you have there?" Gideon tried again, hoping Reid would bite. Reid moaned miserably and sniffled loudly.

"Is that a letter from your Mom?" Gideon asked kindly. He already knew it was. Reid bobbed his head slightly: _Yes._

"It...Whatever she wrote must've really upset you if you're sitting under my kitchen sink in the dark in the middle of the night," Gideon suggested, and decided, screw it, he could sit on the floor. He had a feeling Reid planned to sit in the cupboard for a while.

Reid hunched his shoulders and exhaled deeply.

"Do you...would you like to tell me what she wrote?"

Reid didn't move for a long time. When he did, it was to shake his head: _No._ Gideon sighed lightly, mildly exasperated.

Gideon tried to think back to the times he had interviewed children during his career, tried to get them to open up to him, put them at ease. They'd usually been victims, almost killed, most staring at him with wide-eyes and blank expressions, some too young to really realize the danger they had been in. Spencer not only fully understood what was happening to him, but he was sick of talking. It would take a lot more than a friendly face and an encouraging _"It's okay, you can tell me"_ line to get the kid to talk.

"Do you still want me to call your Mom tomorrow, ask her to send you Moogie?" Gideon asked slowly.

Reid made a low, keening noise; the sound of a little boy whimpering. Crying. It was painful to listen to.

"Reid? What's the matter, pal? What did I _say_?"

The high-pitched whine was still scrabbling at the back of Reid's throat, desperate to turn into a wail.

"Do you want me to ask your Mommy to send you Moogie?" Gideon tried again, as Spencer hadn't technically answered the first time. Ordinarily Jason Gideon would never have referred to Spencer Reid's mother as "Mommy" but Gideon wanted to know what was going on. Gideon doubted Reid had called his mother by that term since toddlerhood, if ever. But Reid did break into harsh, desperate tears then, a low wail.

"_No! Just leave her alone_!" His voice was a choked gasp. Gideon sighed and felt his chest shake with emotion, with compassion, for the child in front of him. He still had no idea what was really going on, what had caused this latest melt-down, but he knew Spencer was suffering and that was enough.

"What's the matter, Reid?" He asked again, a bit stonier. Reid extended a hand and gently gave Gideon the envelope. It was slightly damp with tears, the ink on the front slightly blurry.

Jason Gideon gently pulled the letter from the envelope, opened it, and began to read aloud, ignoring the date at the top, his voice low and kind. The letter had been written, apparently, the day Reid had come to Virginia by plane. The day he had been released from hospital. The day Gideon had met with William Reid and picked up the boy's suitcase.

"_Dear Spencer_," Gideon said slowly, glancing over at the child. Just those two words made Reid whine out another coughed sob.

"_I understand why you have to leave. I feel so badly. You just got home from that place they took you to, and now you are going away again. You are growing up so fast, almost through high school now, and although you are still a child in the physical sense, I know that soon you will be at college and will be starting a complete, independent life of your own. You will be gone. Our time together is coming to an end..."_

Reid was sobbing bitterly again, louder, cries of pure, unadulterated grief.

"_I want you to know I love you. I have always loved you and I always will, but I can not and will not handle these mood swings of yours, your..."_ Gideon trailed off, not believing the words on the paper, his teeth gritting. He had to remind himself that Diana Reid was sick, was_ schizophrenic_, but somehow that knowledge didn't ease the tightness in his throat, the knot in his stomach. Reid was still crying. Gideon began to read again.

"_Your behaviour is becoming unacceptable. You can't just come and leave this house whenever you feel like it because you and your father aren't getting along. I packed some of your clothing like that FBI agent asked. What you are doing associating with the FBI at your age is beyond my comprehension. Stay safe, whatever it is. I also packed some of your favourite things. However, once you leave, I will have no choice but to get rid of your other possessions. The mere sight of your things is painful for me, and anything you truly cared about, you would have come home for, yourself. I wish you well, wherever you are, baby, and whatever you are doing, but I have to protect myself from you now. This is not the first time you have just up and left. Take care baby, and fare well. Love eternal, Mom_."

Gideon sighed heavily and folded the letter back up. His first response was to rip the damn thing to shreds.

"Reid... she is _sick_. Your Mom is very, _very ill_. She probably didn't take any of her medication the entire time you were in the hospital. You told me yourself, before, at the village... that you were the one that usually made sure she took her antipsychotics, remember?"

Reid nodded miserably, but he still couldn't stop crying. Sick or not, the woman was still his mother and the words still hurt.

"She's going to throw all my things away," Reid said eventually, when he had cried himself out. His voice was hoarse and raspy.

"Is that it... you're upset about_ Moogie_?" Gideon asked kindly, but he already knew Moogie was just a _symbol_ of his mother's love, just a symbol. A truckload of actual _Moogies_ wouldn't undo the damage of that single, psychotic letter.

Reid shook his head. "I just wanted him because I missed _her_... but she doesn't... _she doesn't want me anymore._ She says our time is almost over. You heard it. _You read it_."

"_Yes_," Gideon said simply. "Reid, why don't you come out of there? It's dusty under the sink."

Reid sighed and finally shifted and struggled out. How he'd gotten himself under in the first place was a bit of a miracle, considering his cast. He wriggled backwards and onto the floor and pulled himself into his wheelchair, sighing heavily, face pink from crying.

"You...do you have to go to the bathroom or anything?" Gideon said. Reid shook his head.

"You're taking me back to bed now, aren't you?" Reid asked. Gideon shrugged.

"It is 12:30 in the morning, kiddo. Is there something you'd rather do?"

"I'm not tired," Reid said, even though he looked exhausted and emotionally wrung out.

"Okay, you want to watch TV with me for a while? Maybe play some chess?"

"Television," Reid mumbled numbly. "Star Trek."

* * *

Jason Gideon fell asleep with Spencer Reid lying against his chest, head nuzzled under his chin. He woke to the sound of the phone ringing and got up, blinked, and checked the clock on the wall. It was 6:30 in the morning, the television was still on, but some other science fiction show was playing. Star Trek had cut off hours ago.

Gideon gently moved Reid aside and laid the boy gently out on the sofa, covered him with a throw, and raced to the phone. He snatched it off the handset and walked towards the kitchen, blinking tiredly.

"Jason Gideon," He said tiredly.

"Jason? It's Dave," the familiar voice said over the line. Gideon smiled slightly, despite the relatively early hour, and lowered his own voice.

"Oh, Hi, Dave." Barely a whisper.

"I'm sorry... _too early_?" David Rossi guessed.

"No, no, ordinarily it would be fine."

"Rough night?" Rossi asked. David Rossi had been told about Spencer Reid for years, and knew that Gideon was currently fostering the boy.

"You could say that. It was only his second night here, last night, and that's two in a row; night terror the first, and last night I found him sobbing in the cupboard under the kitchen sink."

"The boy is traumatized," Rossi said, voice full of compassion and understanding. "It's going to take some time. You knew that."

"I know. It's just so hard to see him panic and cry and _suffer_ like this, and not know what to do, or how to help. Last night, it was a letter from his mother that set him off... although I was honestly expecting something, after the bath..."

There was silence on the line as Rossi waited for Gideon to continue, so Gideon did.

"Told Spencer he needed a bath, he began to panic, which made me worried. I finally get the kid's shirt off and see his upper arms and shoulders... and from what I was told, a large part of his back, though I can't see that, his back is mostly wrapped in the cast... just... _cigarette burns_. I saw dozens at least."

"I thought you knew about the cigarette burns," Rossi said sadly. "You told me about them."

"I did. What I didn't know was that William Reid had forced his child to burn_ himself_ on occasion, and that they were still so fresh..." Gideon spit the words out.

"And the letter?" Rossi prompted, knowing that Gideon probably needed to vent.

"Ahh, just the rambling paranoia of a paranoid schizophrenic, but the words still hurt Spencer. A_ lot_."

"Sounds like you have your work cut out for you..." Rossi said when Gideon failed to add anything.

"I guess. I mean, Spencer, himself, is a _great_ little boy. _You couldn't ask for a better kid_. He just has so many problems, David. So many fears, such fear and pain. But I don't regret for a second taking him on."

"That's good..._ look_... I just got in from a case or I would have phoned sooner. But I was wondering if you two would be up for a visitor today? I got Spencer some things and, you know, I am really curious to meet the child prodigy that made _The Jason Gideon_ leave the field..."

"Um...I guess," Gideon said, smiling. "He knows who you are, by reputation. He might be very verbose or completely shy and awkward, I have no idea...he'll be excited either way, but he either becomes overly talkative or very withdrawn when excited or overwhelmed."

"That's fine," David Rossi said honestly, the laugh evident in his voice. "What time would be good?"

"How about around noon? That way he'll have had breakfast, lunch and will have had time to get up, get dressed, get used to the idea of you coming, but his morning painkiller won't have him completely groggy, if we're lucky."

"Around noon sounds fine," Rossi said. "See you then."

"You too, Dave. Thanks." Gideon hung up, smiling, and went to wake Reid.

* * *

That's it for chapter nine (I know, kind of short). **Please review** (like always). Just a note- Usually I really try to research things for my fics, but when I wrote early on in this story that Reid's femur was broken, I just assumed he'd have a cast. In reality, when a femur is broken only children have casts (in general) from what I can figure out, called Spica casts, which more or less keep their entire bodies rigid, so he wouldn't be able to sit up, etc... but when I first wrote him with the cast, I didn't know this, so in my mind the cast was only on his leg. Later on I changed it to a Spica cast- kids can still be wheeled around and pushed in wheelchairs, although Reid wouldn't be as mobile as I have depicted him in this story. In adults, from what I could make out, when the femur is broken surgery is performed and a steel rod is inserted to hold the bone together again. Everything I could find out about Spica casts pertained to children, so it's a bit of a plot hole and not 100% medically accurate, but please don't let it ruin the story for you. Thanks. Lexikal


	10. Chapter 10: Memories in the Night

**Title:** Losing My Religion by Lexikal (Chapter Ten)  
**Rating:** M for graphic violence against a child and language (in the first chapter, chapter 8 and this chapter)  
**Fandom:** Criminal Minds  
**Summary:** After two years away from his father and his father's violent rages, Spencer Reid, now ten, is returned home. Spencer has changed... but has William Reid?

**Author's Note:** Thanks so much to everyone for all the reviews! You guys make my day every time I get a review!

**Chapter Note:** Reid relives some of his earlier abuse... please be warned that this chapter is highly angsty and dark and describes explicit child abuse from Spencer's (fragmented) point of view. Do not read if underage!

* * *

"_No, no, Daddy, please don't."_

_The pain was harsh, it hurt, but he was also suspended from it, somehow, like a ghost or a phantom, drifting over his own body. "Don't."_

_The belt hurt. The lashes. There would be welts, lash marks, bruises. The warm, sticky, copper smell of blood. He knows the smell well, almost enjoys it in its familiarity. Is this what an abattoir smells like?_

_Daddy._

_But he can't talk. The man above him radiates nothing but rage and anger and contempt and the child is petrified, pulled into himself, a ball of nothingness, a ball of everything; panic and rage and disillusionment. Finally his mouth works, and with his mouth, come the words._

"_Please. Please. I am sorry. For whatever I did, I am sorry."_

"_That's not good enough," the man says. The man is his father, and his father is screaming, snarling, face twisted and gnarled like a gargoyle. Barely human. There will be no reasoning with this human that has become a thing._

"_Daddy, I am sorry."_

"_It's too late for apologies, you little son of a..." the belt whips across his face. Not the leather side, but the buckle side. It knocks him silly for a second, a blur in his eyes and a yelp echoes out of his throat like a parlour trick. He didn't mean to cry out, but his body did, anyway._

"_Daddy, Daddy, Daddy..." he is begging. Begging. But The Daddy won't listen. The Daddy is pissed off._

"_You're as crazy as your freak mother. You little faggot. No son of mine." _

_Another lash across the face, and this time the buckle tears into the soft flesh right above his eye, his eyebrow, and he can feel the blood start to flow, hot and salty and warm, almost comforting compared to the screaming and the swearing and the hatred, almost comforting in its consistency._

"_Daddy. I'll fix it. I'll fix it." He is not even sure if he is speaking out loud anymore, or just thinking. He is watching everything in a strange, robotic way. The man that is his father is firing questions at him, and he is answering them, but in his vision is a strange and new novelty; he can see each of the potential answers already written in his field of vision, like he would on a television game show, or in a book, or on a multiple choice test. Just pick the right answer, Spencer. Pick the right one, and this will all fade away, and he will go back to being Daddy again. The Good Daddy._

"_It's because of you," The Daddy says, and the belt strikes out again. He curls inward more, and the belt clips across his neck and tears at the soft flesh there. _

"_All because of you. You drove her insane. She wasn't crazy like this when I married her. You think I would marry such a freak?"_

_He doesn't know how to respond to that. How do you respond to that? What is the right answer? He keeps still on the floor in a ball, hands wrapped around his head and upper chest, knees tucked up to his chest._

"_You really are a pathetic piece of shit, you know that, boy?" _

_Another lash. It hits him in the back, but he has a shirt on so the only real pain comes from the blow. That might cause a bruise at most, nothing more. His back is already black, the blood vessels red and raised and prominent and standing out like a roadmap on a grisly, unnatural journey into Hell. Which way to the seventh circle of Hell, Dante?_

_Take a left at the brat's left kidney, turn right... continue right up to his neck, to his neck. There is the seventh circle of hell. Burns fresh and gaping and blister-white. They will scab and turn yellow-green with infection in a few days if the past is any indication of the future._

"_You know, she should have just aborted you? We'd all be better off?" The words fly, the spittle too, and the belt is almost like a massage, a loving hug compared to those words. The child wraps into himself tighter and screws his eyelids closed even tighter, but they can only close so much. Don't think about that, he doesn't mean it. He can't mean it... he is just drunk._

_He is drunk. _

_But maybe he is also telling the truth. Maybe it's the truth. The boy exhales and opens his eyes and lets the words sink in and his blood feels like a series of clots in his young, young veins. Better off dead. Better off dead before you were even born._

_You destroyed everything. Their marriage. Their life. Mommy's sanity. He lets his eyes open wide and smiles bitterly and lets his arms fall to his sides. He no longer cares._

"_What the hell are you smiling about?" That's what Daddy is raging now. _

_But he doesn't know, so he giggles instead._

"_What the hell is so fucking funny?" _

_But he can't say, because he doesn't even know himself. He just knows that his father is right, that he should have been aborted, and he wants to hug his father, tell him that he is right, that he agrees, that maybe it's not too late._

"_Do it, Daddy. Not too late." His voice is soft and accepting and bland, almost peaceful. Daddy stares at him and lashes the belt again, but there are no tears, no whimpers. The belt rises and falls over and over and over in scarlet beacons of pain, but the boy is silent._

"_What, no tears today?"_

_The voice is so, so far away. The belt lashes at his face, over his eyes and nose and lips. His lip is bleeding heavily now, he can feel it, feel the trickle of red hot and the salt in his mouth. He coughs and sputters and gurgles but keeps his arms at his sides, makes no move to protect himself._

_He should have been aborted. He made Mommy insane. He ruined everything. There is no other explanation. No other explanation at all. He must be bad, because if he wasn't, they would love him. It's as simple as that. Isn't it?_

_His father stops then and Spencer Reid is almost disappointed. He can still see, still breathe, and he doesn't think he is dead. He flexes his fingers and they move. Nothing is broken. He is bruised and sore and..._

"_Get up," Daddy orders and the boy grunts and squints and rises. He is shaking, trembling slightly, but not from fear. Pure adrenaline. He sits up and looks down at his shirt, all bloody and gory red, bright like the splattering of errant paint._

_His father blinks then, face changing._

"_Shit, kid, you're a mess."_

_Spencer grunts. His chest aches and it's hard to breathe. He is pretty sure a rib is broken._

"_What the hell did you do, fall down the stairs again?"_

_The 7-year-old's brain recoils at the question. He gasps for a moment, and his father smiles, an almost serene smirk._

_He feels himself pulled up by an arm and he wants to howl in pain, but he suppresses the urge. He deserves this. Deserves this pain. Deserves everything. He is bad, he is bad, bad, bad, bad, bad..._

"_You better not let your Mom see you like this. You stay in your room for a few days. I'll deal with your school."_

_Spencer makes a noise that is close to a groan. Feels his Father's fingers ghost over his legs, his arms, pushing and prodding. Every part of him hurts, but he flinches and squirms and makes a noise that sounds like a squeal when the man presses on his ribs._

"_Broken rib. Clumsy, clumsy boy," His father says dully, almost bored. Spencer nods. Whatever he wants. He is clumsy. He is bad. Please finish it._

"_Come on, you come upstairs. We'll get some ice on that lip... looks like you'll have a shiner too."_

_Reid wants to cry. Just finish it. Please. No more. No more of this. Finish it now. Please no more. Just finish it. But his father tugs him up by one arm, almost yanking his arm out of the socket. He hauls his child up the stairs._

_Spencer hears his mother call from her bedroom, asking if he has a headache. His father swears at her to shut up. Reid recoils silently, his stomach knotting. He's pulled into the living room and pushed into a chair and the TV flickers on. Baseball. His father comes back with a bag of ice cubes and tosses them at the child. Reid groans again and takes the ice, presses it to his eye._

"_Your lip, stupid. Stop the blood first."_

_Reid nods, and moves the bag of ice to his lip. Baseball is on the television. Why did he stop? Why didn't he just finish it? Why?_

_His father stalks into the kitchen and comes back with two beers. He opens one and takes a long swig and hands the other to his child._

"_Beer?"_

_Spencer stares at the can of alcohol, not really understanding. _

'_It'll help dull the pain," his father says, sounding almost sympathetic. Spencer nods and pops the tab and takes a sip. Grimaces. His father laughs and calls him a pussy and turns back to the game. Spencer ends up drinking the entire can, floating away with the buzz and..._

_

* * *

_

"Hey buddy, time to wake up," Gideon's voice was low and gentle. Spencer Reid blinked and opened his eyes. Tried to sit up too fast and felt dizzy.

"Whoa, whoa... you okay?"

Reid nodded, but was silent, just staring.

"Where..._Gideon_?" He looked around in a daze, not comprehending, and then it all came back. _All of it_.

"Morning, pal," Gideon tried again. "I have your cereal out. Didn't pour the milk yet. You want _Trix _again, right?"

Reid nodded dully.

"Spencer?" The kid looked stunned and his eyes were very shiny, very bright. "You okay?"

"_Sure_," Spencer Reid said, smiling brightly, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. Gideon nodded, decided not to press the issue. Reid would talk when he was ready to talk.

"We have a visitor coming today...remember, I told you about David Rossi? He's dropping by around noon..."

Spencer nodded again, automatically, like a robot. Jason Gideon studied the child. Something was wrong.

"You have a bad dream, pal?" Gideon said after a long moment, helping Reid into his chair and manoeuvring him into the dining room.

"No," Reid said honestly, his voice low and still clogged with sleep. "No dream."

"Anything you want to talk about?"

"_No_."

"Okay," Gideon said patiently. He knew there was a lot to talk about. He just didn't know what, at this moment, he needed to address.

"_Gid-yun_?"

"Yeah?"

"You ever drink?" Reid's voice sounded artificially bland and blasé, the voice of a child wearing a mask of bravado. Gideon considered the question.

"Sometimes. Why?"

"No reason. Just curious."

Jason Gideon sighed. "Reid... you know I would never hurt you, don't you? No matter what?" Images of the previous night flooded back, Reid recoiling on the toilet seat, as if expecting to be hit, eyes squeezed tight, his body trembling.

"Yeah, I know." But his voice was pale, anaemic. Full of disbelief.

"_Reid_..."

"I know. I know you never would," Reid said again, forcing his voice to sound more optimistic, more lively.

Gideon didn't buy the kid's act for a second.

* * *

End of chapter 10, I know it's a bit shorter than usual but also more intense than usual... will self-edit for typos but please excuse any that sneak by! Thanks! -Lexikal


	11. Chapter 11: Turtles and Rats

**Title:** Losing My Religion by Lexikal (Chapter Eleven)  
**Rating:** M for graphic violence against a child and language (in the first chapter, chapter 8 and chapter 10 so far)  
**Fandom:** Criminal Minds  
**Summary:** After two years away from his father and his father's violent rages, Spencer Reid, now ten, is returned home. Spencer has changed... but has William Reid?

**Author's Note:** Thanks so much to everyone for all the reviews! You guys make my day every time I get a review! Please keep them coming!

* * *

Jason Gideon watched his young charge from the corner of his eye, trying not to be too obvious, as the kid ate breakfast. Reid was pushing the cereal around in the bowl, not really eating much of it.

"Not hungry this morning?" Gideon asked, sitting down with a black coffee and his usual bacon and eggs.

"_Ermmm_..." Reid said, and shrugged.

"_Ermmm_ is not an answer, Reid," Gideon said mildly. Reid glanced up and shook his head.

"Well, I don't really blame you. That stuff looks like coloured cardboard."

"Yeah, well bacon and eggs aren't good for your triglyceride levels... among other things," Reid shot back instantly in the same mild tone. Gideon shrugged. The boy had a point.

"So. Did you hear me earlier? You still looked half asleep. David Rossi is coming to visit us at noon," Gideon informed the boy, cutting into his eggs.

"_The _David Rossi?" Spencer said, glancing up.

"The one and only," Gideon said, smiling around a mouthful of eggs.

"He's coming to visit _us_? _Why_?"

"Well, he wants to meet you," Gideon said, swallowing. "And he has a day off, so he thought today would be a good day."

"He's going to waste his day off meeting _me_?" Spencer said, looking dubious. Gideon smiled sadly, and shook his head.

"You're not a waste, Reid." The FBI agent said kindly. "You're not bad, you're not a waste; you're a good, kind, bright person."

Reid didn't respond to that, just continued to push his cereal around. He took a bite, then another, then poured some more cereal into his bowl.

"Don't you think you should eat the cereal in the bowl first?" Gideon chuckled.

"_The toy_... I _can't_ reach it..." Reid said patiently, as if Gideon were daft for not getting it earlier.

"That's why you had me pick you up that cereal? _For the toy inside_?" Gideon laughed.

Sure enough, there was a plop of a plastic bag. Reid fished it out of his cereal, licked off the milk and picked it up, turning it over in his small hands almost reverently.

"What did you get?" Gideon asked, trying to sound interested.

"Ninja Turtle watch," Reid said, grinning, showing off his missing teeth. Even though Gideon knew why the kid's teeth were missing, Reid looked young for his age and someone who didn't know his history- or could ignore the bruises- might assume he had simply just lost his baby teeth.

"_Cool_. Can I see?"

Reid nodded and handed the bag to Gideon. Gideon stared at the neon green piece of plastic with the cheap LED display imbedded in what looked like the head of a cartoon turtle. A cartoon turtle wearing a red eye mask.

"Who is this guy?"

"That's _Raphael_... he is my favourite."

"Raphael?" Gideon asked, suddenly curious. "What are the names of the others?"

"All the other characters, or just the three other ninja turtles?" Reid said, chewing on some of his cereal.

"Let's start with the turtles," Gideon said.

"Leonardo, Donatello and Michelangelo," Reid responded, talking with his mouth full, a bit of milk running down his chin.

"All names of great Renaissance artists," Gideon mused thoughtfully. Reid looked up and nodded.

"Is that why you like the show? Did you think it was about...?"

"_No._ I knew it was about mutant ninja turtles from day one," Reid said, cutting him off. Gideon nodded, smiling. _Maybe there was hope for the kid yet._

"You have any theories as to why they were all named after renaissance artists?"

"Leonardo was also a polymath, technically."

"_Well_?"

Reid thought about it for a moment. Shrugged.

"Renaissance means _rebirth_ in the French language, and the turtles were sort of reborn, when the toxic ooze got on them and Splinter took them in..." Reid said; sounding so serious Gideon had to try very, very hard not to bust a gut laughing.

"_Splinter_?" Gideon said when he trusted his voice.

"Splinter is their adoptive father. He is a Japanese mutant rat and also their sensei and learned ninjutsu from his master, Hamato Yoshi. Well... that's in the comics; it is different on the show."

"Oh."

"_Gid-yun_?"

"Yeah, buddy?"

"Can I have my watch back, now?"

Gideon smiled and passed the toy back to Reid, who tore it out of the plastic and fumbled to get it on his right wrist. After a moment he gave up. He looked up at Gideon and grinned.

"I think maybe I should set the time first, huh?"

* * *

"_David_?" Gideon pitched his voice low.

"Jason? Why are you whispering?"

"Listen, I have to be fast. Reid's in the washroom, but the kid is still surprisingly fast. I was wondering if you could make a stop before you come over?" It was 10:30 am.

"Sure. Why?"

"Well, Reid's room looks like a college dorm or something, no real toys, nothing age appropriate. I realize he's a genius and acts like a little adult, but I don't think he was ever_ allowed_ to play, either..."

"I got him some stuff, Jason," Rossi said.

"Yeah, but the social worker is coming tomorrow morning first thing, and he is really into these _Ninja Turtle _things. You heard of them?"

"I got him a bunch of them- action figures, vehicles. Good guys, bad guys, trading cards. Some other toys, too, but yeah, I got_ Turtles _stuff."

"_What_? How did you_ know_?"

"I'm a profiler, Jason," David Rossi said, sounding amused. "Besides, he's a 10 year old boy and those damn things are the craze right now."

"Right." Gideon said slowly, smiling. "Thank you."

"No problem. I just hope I got all of them. Pretty sure, since the sales clerk was _extremely_ helpful, but how many of the actual turtles are there again?"

"_Four_," Gideon said immediately. "Spencer's favourite one is called Raphael..."

"What colour is that one?" Rossi asked, and Gideon could hear rustling over the line.

"Uh, red I think..."

There was more rustling. "I have a red one, a blue one, a purple one and an orange guy. Besides their masks they all look the same to me...weapons are different though..."

"Did you get the _rat_?" Gideon asked then, remembering Splinter.

"_Rat_?" Spencer said eagerly then and Jason Gideon whirled around. Spencer had somehow managed to wheel himself into the room without being heard. "I'm getting a pet _rat_?" The boy let out a squeal of delight.

"_Uhhhh_..." Gideon trailed. He could hear David Rossi chuckling on his end.

"You're right, the kid _is_ fast," Rossi said over the line. "So he thinks he's getting a pet rat now, huh? Good luck with that _one_."

"Yeah, David; _thanks_..." Gideon said wearily. "I'll see you in about an hour." He disconnected the phone.

"Can I have a blue dumbo? They are my favourite breed! Or a..."

"You want a pet_ rat_?" Gideon asked, trying not to wince.

Spencer Reid nodded emphatically.

"They're_ really_ intelligent, Gideon. Out of all the _Murines_- those in the subfamily_ Murinae_, rats are, I think, one of the most intelligent members. _Murinae _are the Old World group of rats and mice and comprise at least 519 species, and for a_ subfamily_ it is larger than all mammal families except for _Cricetidae_ and..." Reid trailed off.

"Take a breath," Gideon said. Spencer did.

"I don't know if, technically, pet rats are true rats, members of the genus _Rattus_, like the black rat; _Rattus rattus_, and the brown rat; _Rattus norvegicus_... I'd have to look it up. The term rat isn't _really_ taxonomically specific, other large muroid rodents have been referred to as rats. In theory, true rats fall under the genus _Rattus_, and true mice under the genus _Mus_. But pet rats, also referred to as fancy rats, have historically, in fiction, been referred to as tamed, rather than domesticated, sort of like when one tames a wolf... common examples of tamed rats in fiction being characters like _Templeton_ from the children's novel _Charlotte's Web_ who was depicted as rather caustic and self-serving, or like_ Samuel Whiskers_, a creation of Beatrix Potter's in the short story The _Roly-Poly Pudding_ and I thought he was pretty terrifying, actually..."

"Reid, pal, you're _rambling_..."

"Rats are so _cool_! _Thank you_! It's going to be here at _noon_?" Spencer was almost manic.

"Well, uh..."Gideon stared down at the boy's large, brown, hopeful eyes. He hadn't seen the kid look this innocent and excited, well... _ever_. "David Rossi isn't picking up your rat. He wanted to, pal, but I thought it would be better if we picked it out ourselves. So you can get the one you want. Say, after the social worker leaves tomorrow?"

Reid screamed with delight and almost fell out of his wheelchair in a quick effort to hug his foster father.

"Whoa, whoa, _whoa_. Calm down. You already have one broken leg, kiddo," Gideon said mildly.

"What time will the social worker come tomorrow? When will she_ leave_? _What time can we go to the pet store_? Can we phone around first to make sure they have blue dumbos and..." Reid trailed off. Gideon let him babble.

"Hey, _Gid-Yun_?"

"Yes, Reid?"

"You know, rats are _very_ social. Even with lots of handling they can become depressed if left alone in a cage, and in my _condition_, it might be a better idea to get two of them. _Brothers_?"

Jason Gideon sighed. Sure. Why not?

He nodded and tried not to roll his eyes: _Real smooth there, Spencer._

Reid shrieked again, a high-pitched little boy shriek. Gideon smiled, despite himself. At least the kid hadn't asked for a dog, or a monkey or something. Rats were quiet, they could run on a wheel, they wouldn't destroy the house... Gideon glanced down at his watch. Reid had rambled for over 10 minutes.

"Reid, buddy, it's 10:50. David is going to be here at noon, maybe a bit earlier. Do you want to change?"

Reid's current pyjamas were identical to his "day clothes"- baggy gray sweat pants and t-shirts, but he hadn't changed since the night before, since going to bed. He nodded and began to wheel himself to his room, muttering about rats and the FBI.

* * *

Reid had gone to the bathroom twice, just in case, and was propped up on the couch. He'd brought his dinosaur with him but it was stuffed under a sofa pillow, as if he didn't want to give the wrong impression and appear infantile. He held his battery operated chess board in his hands, as a distraction.

He was wearing one of the many pairs of his gray sweat pants, a t-shirt, and his hooded sweat-shirt. He also had a blue baseball cap on his head, covering his shaved head. With his cast mostly covered with clothes, and his bald head covered with the cap, propped up with cushions and pillows, he looked a lot less injured than he actually was.

"You nervous?"

"_Yeah_," Reid said without hesitation. It was 11:50 a.m. Rossi would be there any moment.

"Don't be. You look _great_."

"My feet... you can see the cast on my foot..."

"Hold on..." Gideon soothed and jogged up the stairs. He rummaged in his closet and came back with a pair of men's size socks- the socks he'd purchased for Spencer hadn't fit over the cast. He pulled the socks over the ends of Reid's feet, his toes, and made a mental note to pick the kid up a pair of slippers. Maybe ninja turtle ones, something cute like that...

When he looked back up, Reid was wearing his sunglasses. Gideon knew he wore the glasses when he felt nervous or embarrassed or threatened.

"Reid, maybe we should leave the glasses off? David is really nice, a good friend of mine..."

Spencer Reid pressed the "on" button on his chess game and began to play against the computer, using the keypad to enter his moves. Gideon could hear the beeps and bloops of the electronic game as the pieces moved.

And then the doorbell rang.

* * *

"He's _really _nervous," Gideon whispered at the door, the second he got it open. Rossi raised his eyebrows. He was holding a huge gift bag covered with holographic images of dinosaurs, and Gideon could see at least one poster protruding from the bag.

"Nice to see you too, Jason," David said, before embracing the other man in a quick, tight hug.

"He's just...you know... he's in shy-mode. Oh, and he is getting rats tomorrow, I told him you wanted to get him one, but that I decided that it would be better for us to go and pick them out together, so he could get the ones he wanted..."

"Smooth," Rossi admitted, grinning devilishly. "_Rats_? As in pleural?"

"Kid is smart. And grew up in Vegas. Don't ask." Gideon stated and then let him into the house, glancing down at the gift bag again.

"What did you do, buy out the entire_ Toys R Us_?"

Rossi shrugged. Smiled.

"Reid!" Gideon called, slowly showing David Rossi into the living room. "David is here."

He almost blurted out _Come and say Hello!_ But stopped himself just in time.

Gideon and Rossi stepped into the living room and Reid slowly craned his head around. He was still wearing his sunglasses but he had apparently put the chess game on hold because Gideon couldn't hear any sounds, any music.

"Hi," Reid said in a tiny voice, before David Rossi could say anything.

* * *

Chapter 11 over, Chapter 12 will be mostly Rossi's visit and Reid marvelling over his gifts, and possibly the social worker's visit as well. I figured after the previous chapters, our little Reid needed some comfort and fun and toys. Please Review! -Lexikal


	12. Chapter 12: Rossi

**Title:** Losing My Religion by Lexikal (Chapter Twelve)  
**Rating:** M for graphic violence against a child and language (in the first chapter, chapter 8 and chapter 10 so far)  
**Fandom:** Criminal Minds  
**Summary:** After two years away from his father and his father's violent rages, Spencer Reid, now ten, is returned home. Spencer has changed... but has William Reid?

**Author's Note:** Thanks so much to everyone for all the reviews! You guys make my day every time I get a review! Please keep them coming! I am _really _into this story, and I promise I haven't abandoned the others like "This is My Last Resort", "Coulrophobia" or "The Blue Boy" but those are more complicated stories and require more research, and this is easier to write, for me, right now.

**Chapter Note:** I made Rossi give Reid a Glock 17 toy gun because on the show both Morgan and Hotch use Glock 17s (they have backup Glock 27s on their ankles) and Reid carries a Glock 17 until early season 4... Early in season 4 he trades it in for a silver .38 Smith 65 3' revolver.

* * *

"Hi," Reid said in a tiny voice, before David Rossi could say anything.

Rossi didn't even glance over at Gideon, didn't miss a beat.

"Hi there, yourself. It's nice to meet you..." He trailed off, not sure what to call the child. No _You must be Spencer's _or _I have heard a lot about you's_. None of the usual clichés adults said to children when meeting them for the first time.

"Reid, what would you like David to call you?" Gideon asked. Reid bit his lip. It was hard to tell what was going through his mind, with his eyes shuttered behind his sunglasses.

"_Reid's okay_," the boy finally squeaked. Rossi smiled and nodded his head and Gideon motioned the living room, indicating that David should sit, relax.

David Rossi came over and sat on a chair next to Spencer, but not too close. The boy pulled back a little, just the tiniest amount. Most people would have missed it, but Rossi caught it. So did Gideon.

"So..." Rossi said kindly, turning to face the boy. "You can call me David if you want. Or Rossi. Whatever you feel comfortable with."

Reid nodded to indicate that he had heard, but didn't say anything for a long moment.

"I call Jason, _Gideon_, and he calls me _Reid _even though I am a child and most people would insist on calling me Spencer."

"Does that mean you'd prefer to call me Rossi?" David Rossi asked in a neutral tone of voice. Reid thought for a moment, apparently, his body still, face unreadable.

"What does Gid-yun call you?" Reid queried.

"_Gideon_? He calls me David," Rossi said kindly, watching the boy carefully. Gideon had been right- the kid was both endearing and interesting to study. His body language, his questions, just everything about him wrapped up in a tiny little body. _Interesting._

_Stop it, Rossi, you came here to visit him, not study him like a science experiment..._

"If Gid-yun calls you David, I want to call you _Rossi_," Reid said simply, and both Gideon and Rossi exchanged a brief glimpse. Gideon shook his head, his expression both amused and exasperated. Rossi just smiled. The kid was distancing himself from Rossi. Gideon was pretty sure it was some sort of territorial thing, that Reid wanted or even needed Gideon to himself, or at least thought he did.

"Rossi is fine, that's what most people call me," David Rossi said gently.

"So," Gideon cut in, smiling weakly. "_David_? Would you like coffee? Tea?"

"Coffee is fine; you know how I take it..." Rossi said simply. Reid's nose wrinkled.

"I want _Pepsi_," Reid informed Gideon then, and Gideon smiled and nodded. "Okay, one coffee and one Pepsi... be right back."

Reid stared down at his lap when Gideon left the room. His heart was hammering and his hands felt cold and clammy. David Rossi seemed nice enough, but Spencer Reid didn't know him. Rossi was holding a large gift bag with dinosaurs on the side.

"So, Gideon told me you like _Ninja Turtles_?" Rossi said, finally breaking the awkward silence. Reid nodded slightly, and swallowed nervously. Rossi handed the boy the bag.

"_Raphael_ is your favourite?" Rossi continued, watching as the boy gingerly took the bag. He held it for a moment, and Rossi noticed that his hands were shaking. _Hard_. Gideon hadn't been exaggerating, the kid was very high-strung, very hyper vigilant. Reid nodded again to indicate that Rossi was right about his favourite Ninja Turtle, but his throat was working harder. His shoulders were shaking now, holding the gift bag, making it shake and rattle its contents.

A stream of thoughts ran through David Rossi's mind. He knew the kid probably had Acute Stress Disorder; he could be the poster child for it, if not outright Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. He was quaking harder now, vibrating all over, and his face was pale, except for his cheeks, which looked flushed. No doubt his pupils were gigantic under the shades.

"Well, Reid, you can look in the bag if you want," Rossi said kindly, feeling almost protective of the little boy. He'd only been in his presence a few minutes, and he already felt a connection to the kid, and a fierce desire to comfort him... but he didn't know him.

"Okay," Reid squeaked, but his hands were shaking too hard. He dug through the bag but the bag dropped and the contents went scattering over the floor. Reid gulped again, audibly, and wheezed in air as if he were about to panic. Rossi got up slowly and gently began to pick up the gifts, placing them beside Reid- _very slowly_- on the sofa. Reid turned his head and studied the pyramid of brightly coloured boxes and packages, hands hovering over them, fingers trembling and dipping, as if he were playing an invisible piano.

"They're for _you_, Reid. You can open them if you want," Rossi told the boy gently. Reid's head craned up and he nodded.

"_Th-Thank you_," the little boy said softly, his mouth open in amazement. Gideon came back then, carrying a cup of coffee with extra cream and sugar and a can of Pepsi.

Gideon looked at the huge pile of gifts and blinked.

"Wow, Reid. _Cool_." Gideon said, and glanced over at Rossi, exchanging a look. Reid hadn't been shaking like this when he'd left. Reid nodded silently, head down.

Gideon handed Rossi his coffee and then gently sat down next to Reid, reaching over to help him with his gifts. He picked up a box and looked at it. Read the printing off to Reid.

"_Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles; the movie_... have you seen this Reid?"

Reid shook his head and gulped again.

"Well this looks very... _awesome_," Gideon prompted. "We'll have to watch this. Did you say thank you to Rossi?"

"He said thank you," David Rossi cut in immediately. Gideon nodded.

Gideon read through the rest of the toys; action figures of Leonardo, Donatello, Michelangelo, Raphael, Splinter, Shredder and a few other characters, some vehicles, trading cards and a book with plastic sleeves to store them, a Ninja Turtles poster. Reid nodded after each gift was mentioned.

"Wow, Reid... notebooks to write in. Pens, pencils, coloured pencils, erasers... even a battery operated pencil sharpener and drawing paper. _Cool_."

"Yeah..." Almost a whisper.

There were more gifts. Gideon took a sip of his coffee and held up a tiny t-shirt, blinking in surprise.

It was a miniature FBI t-shirt, actual FBI merchandise. And there was an FBI ball cap in Reid's size. Reid glanced up then and looked at the FBI clothing.

"Wow," he said breathlessly. "This is...this is a real one, not a copy right?"

Rossi nodded at the child, grinning. Reid had perked up, his curiosity overcoming his fear and anxiety. He began to look more at the gifts.

"Pretty cool, huh?" Gideon prodded, not wanting Reid to withdraw again.

The boy nodded shyly. Gideon looked over at Rossi and shook his head, amused.

"How did you get them so small?" Jason Gideon asked his friend.

"I have my ways," Rossi said enigmatically, grinning.

Reid was digging through the gifts now, thanking Rossi quickly as he picked up each item. A Rubik's cube, models of planes, a globe, nerf guns. And then, he picked it up and stared at it, both curious and uncertain.

A toy gun. A Glock 17. And a gun holster for it.

"Please tell me you didn't get him a flak jacket," Gideon said, unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

"Couldn't find one of _those_..." Rossi said, grinning wider. Reid pulled out a box from the still sizable pile and looked at it.

"_Junior detective fingerprint analysis kit_," Reid read aloud, and looked up, grinning. Gideon shot Rossi an _I am going to kill you_ look. He knew that within days, if not hours, the entire inside of his home was going to be covered with black powder. _Great._

"Thanks!" Reid said with excitement, looking at the kit. "Can I fingerprint you later, Gid-yun?"

Jason Gideon stared back at David Rossi and rolled his eyes at his friend. Rossi was grinning even wider, trying very hard to choke back his imminent laughter.

"Gid-yun?" Reid pressed.

"Sure, pal. You can fingerprint me," Gideon said mildly, staring darkly at Rossi.

"Oh, you might find _these_ fun... these handcuffs_ here_..." Rossi piped up and Gideon sighed tiredly. Spencer Reid with handcuffs was a scary thought, and who did Rossi think he was going to want to cuff?

"You got him an FBI t-shirt, cap, toy glock, gun holster, fingerprint kit and now cuffs... what, no _badge_?"

"There's one in there, too. You'll need to follow the instructions and put a photo of Reid on it, but it's already printed up with his name..."

"Thanks, David, extremely_ thoughtful_ gifts..."

But there was still more. A radio controlled car. A game called _Simon_ that apparently lit up and beeped... some sort of memory game. Candy,_ lots_ of candy and... Gideon went into the kitchen and grabbed himself a cup of coffee. He wanted to strangle Rossi. When he came back Rossi was helping Reid tear the _Simon_ game out of the box and it was already on, beeping crazily. Gideon sighed.

"You've been working for the BAU for_ too_ long, David," Gideon said with exasperation.

"_Hmm_?" Rossi looked up, still grinning, but Reid was grinning now too, earlier timidity completely gone.

"Hey Gid-yun, I_ bet_ I could play this until the batteries run out because I have an _eidetic _memory..."

"I'm sure you could, pal." Gideon agreed, trying not to sound miserable.

_Great._

Last but not least was a giant box of Lego. Reid _ohhed_ and _ahhed_ over it, and wanted to rip it out of its box right then and there.

"Pal, Lego pieces are_ really_ small. Maybe we should wait, play with that one_ later_?"

Reid looked at the gargantuan box longingly, but eventually nodded.

"The pieces aren't that small," Rossi said, smiling.

"They are small _enough_," Gideon said in a warning tone.

The number of gifts piled up on the coffee table was frighteningly large.

"Um, Rossi?" Reid asked, looking at the stranger who, within the span of twenty minutes, was quickly becoming a good friend. "When I get better can I dress up in my FBI stuff and come to Quantico and work a case?"

Rossi grinned and nodded, ignoring Gideon's roll of the eyes. "I'd love nothing more, Reid. I think that would be most excellent."

"Hey... I have a cast on... you want to see it?"

"Sure," Rossi said, keeping the sudden pity he felt for the child out of his voice.

"Can you sign it?"

Gideon got up to get a pen before either Reid or Rossi had to ask for one. He came back to find his best friend and foster son discussing rats.

"Make sure you get a_ very_ large cage," Rossi instructed Reid, looking serious. "I had rats as a boy. You need a large cage; they'll need a large wheel, hammocks, tunnels, chew toys, and water bottles are better than bowls because the water stays fresher..."

"That makes perfect sense," Spencer Reid agreed immediately. "So, like a ferret cage?"

"At_ least _that big; multi-level cages are better."

Reid had opened his Pepsi and was taking fast gulps, and had opened up some of the candy Rossi had given him. His face was already smudged with chocolate and what looked like the inside of Twinkies. His voice, too, was faster.

"_Guys_... pen for the cast?" Gideon cut in, hopefully stopping the inane rodent discussion. Rossi took the pen with a mischievous smile and Reid pulled his sock off, pulled his sweat pant leg up.

"Oh, Gid-yun, Rossi gave me_ these_ too..." Reid trailed, holding up an envelope.

"What?" Gideon asked, not sure if he wanted to know.

"Ah, just some tickets for Go-carting, Laser-Tag, Paint ball, Water-slides, stuff like _that_... no expiry date," Rossi informed Gideon seriously.

Rossi was silent for a moment; then seemed to think of something.

"Darn, I forgot to pick it up... knew I was forgetting _something_..."

"_What_?" Reid piped up instantly, leaning closer.

"The Nintendo... I was going to get you a Nintendo and some games. It's lots of fun, and great for when you're sick..."

"David, you got him a lot, you were _very_ generous," Gideon blurted. "Wasn't he, Reid?"

Reid nodded instantly.

"But the Nintendo... they are so much fun. More fun than all this stuff combined. You just ask Gideon for one, Reid..." David Rossi insisted, somehow managing not to smile.

"Yeah, I always wanted a Nintendo, actually, and there is even a _Ninja Turtles_ game for the NES," Reid stated eagerly.

"Well, see, there you go! Now you _have_ to get one!"

_Yes. David Rossi had definitely been working around sadists for far too long..._

_

* * *

_

That's it for chapter 12, was going to make it longer and have a few more scenes in this chapter with Gideon talking with Rossi alone, and Reid playing with his toys, but I'll just write those in the next chapter. Feeling a touch under the weather right now, though, so I am not sure when I will update this, hopefully soon. I really wanted to write more, but I feel really crummy and I figured I should just finish the scene, edit and then post so you guys can at least read_ this_. Reid with toys, dressed up as a little G-man is coming soon, as well as the social worker's home visit and the dentist! Fun, but also angst, ahead! This will be a pretty long story so there are many more chapters ahead (at least ten, I am guessing, maybe more). **Please review!** Oh, and I had _lots_ of fun writing mischievous Rossi in this, and writing excited and happy little Reid. Honestly, I think the kid needed some toys and fun after all he's been through in this fic so far!


	13. Chapter 13: Sugar Crash

**Title:** Losing My Religion by Lexikal (Chapter Thirteen)  
**Rating:** M for graphic violence against a child and language (in the first chapter, chapter 8 and chapter 10 so far)  
**Fandom:** Criminal Minds  
**Summary:** After two years away from his father and his father's violent rages, Spencer Reid, now ten, is returned home. Spencer has changed... but has William Reid?

**Author's Note:** Thanks so much to everyone for all the reviews! You guys make my day every time I get a review! Please keep them coming! I am _really _into this story, and I promise I haven't abandoned the others like "This is My Last Resort", "Coulrophobia" or "The Blue Boy" but those are more complicated stories and require more research, and this is easier to write, for me, right now.

* * *

Rossi had arrived around noon. By 1:36 in the afternoon Spencer Reid was out for the count, lying on the sofa, drooling slightly. He'd removed his sunglasses an hour or so earlier, but was wearing the FBI cap and t-shirt and had asked Gideon for a belt so he could attach the gun holster. The gun, much to Gideon's annoyance and Reid's thrilled delight, made noise. It had batteries inside and sounded incredibly loud when someone pulled the trigger. Reid had aimed the toy around the house and pretended to blast away at invisible "UnSubs" for ten minutes while Gideon's headache developed.

"Pal, I think that's enough shooting UnSubs. I think you got every serial killer in history, now." Gideon said. Reid had nodded, but then had gone on to play with his radio controlled car, eyes lighting up as the monster truck wheeled and tumbled around the living room.

He'd asked repeatedly to both fingerprint Rossi and Gideon, and play with the Lego, and when Gideon had told him that both those toys had lots of little pieces that could easily get lost he'd nodded, and gone on to the rest. The Rubik's cube hadn't proven to be much of a challenge for the boy and within the span of about fifty seconds he'd worked out a mathematical formula for how to solve it, no matter how it was twisted, eyes closed.

He wrote down the formula in one of his notebooks and shared it with Rossi.

"Pal, why don't we take some of these toys to your room? Put them away?" Gideon had asked. Reid was almost manic, but Gideon didn't have the heart to take the candy away from him. Today was a special day.

Reid had nodded and wheeled himself into his room and Gideon had carried the toys in, asking Reid where he wanted each one. The globe and Rubik's cube went on the desk, the _Ninja Turtles_ toys and _Nerf_ guns and remote controlled car and nearly everything else... and there was a_ lot_ of stuff... was positioned neatly on the bookcase shelves. Then Reid had wheeled himself back into the living room and pulled the Glock from his holster, aiming the toy at Rossi.

"_Put your hands where I can see them_!" The little boy shouted loudly, making Gideon wince. David Rossi raised his hands immediately.

"Get down on your belly!" Reid said then, snapping out the commands. For a kid who never watched television, apparently, he was pulling off a pretty good rendition of the cop cliché.

"Uh, Reid...Rossi is a_ guest_. He's _not_ going to get down on his stomach..." Gideon said tiredly.

"He's _not_ a guest, he's an _UnSub_. Brutally murdered thirty one people, he's a family _annihilator_." Reid was still in character apparently, gun still extended, and then he whispered something towards his wrist.

"I'm going to need backup here, guys."

"Reid, we don't talk into our _wrists_," Gideon said glibly, but he was smiling now. Reid blinked, as if confused.

"On _Dick Tracy_ they have little radio-watches to talk into on their _wrists_..."

"That's on _Dick Tracy_; I thought you were playing _FBI_?"

Reid nodded and pretended to hold a cell phone and repeated the same request for backup.

"_Now_," he told Rossi sternly, fumbling with the handcuffs. "Turn around_ very_ slowly. You make a move, I swear, I'll blow your brains out."

Gideon's first response was to talk sternly to Reid, to tell the boy that that sort of speech was unacceptable. But then again, it was David Rossi who had given him all these migraine-inducing toys in the first place, so he decided to let it go. Rossi nodded at Reid and turned around, hands already criss-crossed and ready to be cuffed.

Reid wheeled up to the man and put the cuffs on, none too gently.

"Now, get in the car!" Reid ordered. Rossi looked over at Gideon, obviously confused. Gideon was having a hard time keeping a straight face now.

"_Car_?" Rossi eventually asked Reid.

"The car is the _sofa_," Reid whispered in Rossi's direction, as if annoyed that the game had been temporarily suspended. "If you sit on it, that's sitting in the car."

"Oh, right," Rossi said quickly. Reid looked at his handiwork and broke out into giggles.

"Gid-yun, look at him! A _real_ FBI agent, and now he is hand-cuffed, and _I_ did it!" There was more laughter and even Jason Gideon found the situation more than a little comical. Where had he left his Polaroid camera?

"Hey, Reid, you hold on just a _second_... I'll be right back..." and Gideon was up the stairs.

Rossi was still sitting on the sofa, looking a little uneasy now. Gideon came back down the stairs then, Polaroid extended. He took several shots, waiting for a moment when Reid hollered that he wanted to sit next to Rossi. Reid was laughing harder now, especially as Rossi began to protest being photographed.

"Jason, I am _serious_..." Rossi said, feigning discomfort and embarrassment for the little boy's sake, who was clearly enjoying the ruckus he had created.

After a few minutes Reid looked at the photographs and cracked up all over again, even though Gideon had taken mercy on his friend and asked Reid for the key.

Then Reid wanted to drag the Scrabble game out and play a game, and Gideon had nodded... _Scrabble_ had to be less stressful than something battery-operated that made noise. They sat around playing, Reid insisting both on keeping score, and also rubbing his hands together every time he came up with a particularly advanced word.

He talked incessantly, telling both Gideon and Rossi, whether they asked or not, the root origins of words, explaining the history of the question mark (what that had to do with Scrabble, Gideon didn't know) and describing at length his_ favourite_ words and why they were his favourites.

He ate Twinkies and Reese's peanut butter cups and Twizzlers and drank Pepsi and then, towards the end of the game, fell asleep. Gideon gently scooped him out of his chair and laid him on the sofa to rest. The excitement of meeting Rossi and all the sugar and the pain meds had finally taken their toll.

"_You_!" Gideon said sharply, after kissing Reid on the temple, eyes making contact with his friend. "_You _are helping me clean this mess up!" The entire living room was scattered with toy packages and cardboard and candy wrappers.

Rossi grinned and nodded.

* * *

They worked fast, both men glancing at Reid as he slept; Gideon with concern and love, Rossi with amusement.

"He's _quite_ a kid," Rossi said when they were done with the living room and were sitting in the dining room with coffee.

"That he is. I've never seen him act so much like an _actual_ kid before, though. I had assumed he was Asperger's for sure, that he would never play _pretend_ like that."

"That's why I got him that stuff, I wanted to see, too," Rossi said, trying to look innocent. Gideon snorted and rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, but you_ also_ wanted to see me have an aneurism..."

David Rossi grinned. "Seriously, Jason, you said you didn't have time to shop for toys for the kid. And the social worker is coming tomorrow?"

"He had a few things, David, and he's only been here a few days; this is only his second full day, I _think_, and tonight will only be his third night here, it's not like they are going to expect him to have one of everything _already_..."

Could that be true? Reid was only half-way through his second day in DC? It seemed like so much had already happened since Reid had arrived.

"Yeah, well, his room will look... _less_ like a college dorm now," Rossi said, grinning.

"Don't try to weasel your way out of this one. Are_ you_ going to be the one to come over here and wash the black powder off the walls after he dusts everywhere looking for _UnSub_ prints?"

Rossi smirked and took another gulp of his coffee. He looked incredibly pleased with himself.

"Look, you said it yourself. He tires quickly. I mean, he is still healing. I didn't see the injuries you did, obviously, but just that cast, and the bruising... and then the pain meds. Don't worry about some toys." Rossi said gently, looking at his friend with empathy.

Gideon nodded as he thought about it. Reid's pain medication did tire him quickly. And the boy did need to play, let off steam and energy and aggression. Rossi was probably right.

But Rossi wasn't the one who would have to be the bad guy or the disciplinarian if Reid got too wild, either.

Gideon took a sip of his coffee.

"Hey, I am sorry if I over-stepped my bounds with the toys. I admit, I was nervous. The kid's abuser was a man, and I didn't want to show up here empty-handed and just hope the kid would be okay with me, I sort of wanted to distract him, just in case..." Rossi trailed. Gideon snapped his head up, surprised. David Rossi had been_ nervous_ about meeting Reid? He hadn't considered that angle before.

"David, even if your presence had made him nervous, that wouldn't have been your_ fault_..."

"I know_ that_," Rossi sighed tiredly. "But that kid of yours, he almost had a panic attack when you left the room. Didn't calm down until he saw the FBI stuff. UnSubs I can handle. I don't really _care_ if I scare them. Abused little boys, I have virtually no experience with and I _do_ care if I scare them."

Gideon nodded. It made sense. He, himself, had seen a lot of horrific things while in the BAU, but somehow- because he knew Reid and Reid was just a little boy- his abuse was almost as horrific as the worst crimes he'd ever investigated. Maybe worse, because he had an emotional attachment to the child.

"You're probably right about the toys," Gideon said diplomatically. Rossi's actions made more sense now. "After all, did you see how _fast_ he figured out that Rubik's cube?"

Rossi grinned and nodded. "I know. I especially liked the little math formula for it that he shared with me. That was great."

"And he does look_ really_ cute dressed up as a little fed," Gideon admitted, chuckling.

"Yeah," Rossi agreed. "I'll try and pick him up a jacket and pants so when he is up and about you can take photos. Maybe he can even go as a junior G-man for Halloween?"

"I think he'll just assume he is a real FBI agent after awhile and will want to go as something_ else_ for Halloween," Gideon admitted, knowing how Reid's mind worked. Reid, who would soon, no doubt, be speed-reading his way through Gideon's criminology texts and be bugging for trips to Quantico's BAU field office... he would assume he was a real FBI agent, an honorary FBI agent if nothing else.

Gideon was silent for a moment, thinking, planning the rest of the day.

"You want to stay for dinner? I was going to make shake and bake chicken and mashed potatoes with gravy?"

Rossi seemed to consider this.

"Look, if you leave while he is sleeping, without giving him a chance to say goodbye, he'll be really upset..." Gideon stated bluntly. It wasn't a lie either.

"In that case, sure. Chicken and mashed potatoes sounds great."

"Good, you can watch him, then. I have to make a run to the grocery store and pick up some stuff, we're basically out of groceries... he's sleeping so you should be able to handle it..." Gideon grinned.

"_Jason_..." Rossi began to protest.

"Look, the home assessment is tomorrow, and if there is only a few pieces of bacon and a few eggs left and some milk and that horrible Trix cereal that Reid loves... not going to look so good, is it?"

Rossi sighed. "Fine. Go. You have a list?"

"I know what I need," Gideon said, smiling. "Thanks, David."

"No problem." Rossi said, smiling a little. He could handle Reid. Even if the kid woke up, he could handle him. _No problem._

_

* * *

_

Wanted to put this up, it's taking me a long time to write these things (for me), trouble focusing, tired, but I really like this story so my brain won't really let me go too long without working on it. I will try to write a chapter (even if small) of "The Blue Boy" soon as I realize I haven't updated that in a_ long_ time. Thanks again for all the wonderful feedback, you guys are AWESOME! Lexikal


	14. Chapter 14: Dissociation

**Title:** Losing My Religion by Lexikal (Chapter Fourteen)  
**Rating:** M for graphic violence against a child and language (in the first chapter, chapter 8 and chapter 10 so far)  
**Fandom:** Criminal Minds  
**Summary:** After two years away from his father and his father's violent rages, Spencer Reid, now ten, is returned home. Spencer has changed... but has William Reid?

**Author's Note:** Thanks again for the reviews, sorry for the lag on the update, been tirrrrrred. And then there is that pesky thing called life to contend with. But honestly, reviews are like coffee for me. I tend to write more when I get them (hint, hint)!

* * *

Reid woke up about 2:30. Jason Gideon had only been gone for about 15 minutes, maybe 10, and Rossi was sitting in the arm chair in the living room, reading an article in _National Geographic_. Reid woke up slowly, rubbing his eyes like a very small child. He saw Rossi and seemed to pop back to life then, looking around as if disoriented.

"Where's Gid-yun?"

"He went to the grocery store." Rossi said, smiling a little at the child. Hoping Reid wouldn't freak out if left alone.

"Oh." Reid said. "_Why_?"

"I'm not sure, but I think he had to pick up some _groceries_..." Rossi said, smiling wider. Reid considered this and then shook his head as if the very idea was inane.

"We have food_ here_. Still lots of _candy_, and_ cereal_... I know, I_ saw_ the fridge."

"I think he wanted to get stuff to make dinner."

"Oh." Reid sighed tiredly. He glanced around the living room again and yawned, before shifting and trying to get into his wheelchair.

"Do...do you need some help there?" Rossi asked carefully.

"I've got it," Reid informed Rossi, grunting and sighing as he manoeuvred himself into the chair. Rossi let him do it. It took him a good eight minutes to get into his chair, but once he had settled himself he seemed fine wheeling himself around the living room. His cheeks were flushed and his hair was sticking awkwardly to the side of his head, sweaty from sleep.

"I'm_ bored_..." Reid confessed after a few minutes. Rossi bit down on his tongue. Bored? How could the kid be bored? He was really going to need a Nintendo or something...

"You want to read something?" Rossi asked after a few seconds, indicating the magazine he was reading.

"My mom only packed me three books, and I've read them already. I read Robert Frost before bed sometimes, but it's nowhere near bedtime, and the other books are Gid-yun's."

"I'm sure he won't mind if you read something," Rossi said honestly.

"I didn't ask him though and they belong to Gid-yun," Reid said seriously. Despite his apparent boredom he yawned again. His eyes, also, looked slightly blood shot.

"I can go and get some of the toys out of your room... not all of them, but a few?" Rossi offered. Reid seemed to consider this and finally shook his head.

"No, Gid-yun wouldn't like that, because we have the worker coming over tomorrow and the house has to look nice."

"Do you want to watch the television?"

"_Nothing_ is on in the day time..." Reid said, huffing. "And my cast itches." He sat in his chair for a moment, looking tired, bored and slightly uneasy. He'd never been without Gideon before, not since Gideon had become his legal guardian. David Rossi seemed nice enough, but for some reason Spencer Reid's heart was still racing and he just wanted to... _hide_. Somewhere deep inside he knew the desire was silly and inappropriate, but the lizard part of his brain was telling him to hide._ Hide_.

"We're really going to have to get you a Nintendo," Rossi said conversationally. "They have lots of games and I think you might really enjoy one."

"Yeah," Reid said softly. He was more awake now, and he didn't_ know_ Rossi; Rossi _seemed_ nice but his own father _seemed_ nice enough in public and was an attorney and _seeming_ nice didn't mean someone _was_ nice, he knew that well enough and...

"_Reid_? You okay?" David Rossi's voice sounded far away and tinny, like it was coming in over a crackly radio station. Reid blinked and looked down at his hands, which also looked distorted and slightly dreamy and unreal. He flexed them and watched the fingers move, but everything seemed blurry and strange, like looking through the wrong end of a telescope.

"I'm fine," Spencer Reid mumbled softly. He'd felt like this before, and he knew that it was technically called "dissociation" and that it was a psychological defence mechanism, but it had never come on so suddenly before, like a switch being flicked. One moment everything had seemed clear and real and right and the next thing... he was out of his body, listening to himself and watching himself, but disconnected. Strange how fast it had happened. Even with his father, it had never happened so fast, more like a slow slide into dream-land, but this time it had been...instantaneous. And unexpected.

"I'm _fine_." Reid repeated a bit louder, wondering if his voice sounded as strange to David Rossi as it did to himself. But Rossi just looked a bit concerned now.

"You sure?"

"Yeah..."

"You sure you don't want something to read?"

"Um...I am still kind of tired... I am going to go sleep in my room. Is that okay?"

David Rossi was feeling a little concerned now. The kid was staring around the room with huge eyes, his pupils heavily dilated. He wasn't pale, but there was something mechanical about his voice, he was speaking almost in a dull monotone, and it had come on very, very suddenly.

"I don't mind if you go sleep in your room for a while. Do you need any help?"

"No.._.No_...I am fine." Reid said slowly. "I just...I like talking to you, you're fun, I just...I think maybe I had too much sugar, I think..." Reid's cheeks were heavily flushed now, the pupils still huge, even though the room was fairly bright. David Rossi wasn't fooled for a microsecond. He knew this state of mind had nothing to do with "too much sugar". He knew what dissociation was- he'd seen victims in shock before, he'd felt it himself. But he'd never seen it come on so suddenly, without warning. It was a bit worrying, and he'd have to talk to Gideon about it. Given the boy's past he was a prime candidate for developing some sort of dissociative disorder in addition to anxiety disorders.

"I'm...I'm going to go have a nap..." Reid said again, slowly, as if the words were hard to form.

"You feel strange, don't you? Everything appears distorted? Almost like you're not in your body, or like you're in a dream?" Rossi asked gently, hoping the boy would talk to him, open up to him.

"Too much _sugar_." Reid said simply, not admitting anything, but also not refuting Rossi. He wheeled himself out of the room slowly. "T-Thank you for the toys, Rossi." He said as he left.

"You're more than welcome, Reid." David Rossi said, watching the boy exit the room. Was Reid dissociating because he would've dissociated anyway? Or was being left alone with a relative stranger who also happened to be a man... had that been the trigger? Or did he- David Rossi- remind the child in some way of his own father? What had triggered this state off? And more importantly, was this the height of it? Or just the tip of the iceberg?

He'd really have to have a long talk with Jason sometime soon.

* * *

Gideon came back about an hour after Reid had wheeled himself into his room and closed the door.

"Jason." Rossi said from the dining room. He was sitting with a cup of tea, thinking. Gideon hauled the bags into the kitchen and put things away quickly before returning to the dining room.

"What's up? Where is Spencer?"

"Have a second?" Rossi asked rhetorically. Gideon nodded and pulled out a chair, sitting down. Not quite sure what his friend was going to tell him.

"Reid is fine. Having a nap... in his room..."

"What happened?" Jason Gideon pressed, worry forming a small crease between his eyebrows.

"The kid woke up, looked around. Seemed fine at first and then... he just zoned out on me."

"_Zoned out on you_?" Gideon repeated, leaning forward. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

"I think he's dissociative. At least...earlier he was dissociating. Pupils the size of saucers, voice soft and robotic. You_ know_...you've seen that behaviour before."

Gideon nodded and glanced in the general direction of Spencer Reid's new bedroom.

"And the nap? His idea? Or yours?"

"_His_. I tried to get him to open up, without pressing anything. Figured I might make things worse. He told me he must've had too much sugar- then went to his room." Rossi confessed softly. Gideon nodded again and sighed. He had hoped Reid would have slept until dinner.

"I think... given what you've told me about this child's background, you might have to be on the alert for more than nightmares and hyper-vigilance." Rossi finished softly. Gideon nodded again. He knew that already, he'd just been hoping he'd been wrong.

"You mind putting the oven on and filling one of the big pots with water? I'll..." Gideon trailed, and pushed his chair away.

"No problem." David Rossi said empathetically and got up to do as his friend had requested. Gideon walked quickly towards his foster son's bedroom, stopping just outside. He knocked lightly. No response. The crease between his eyebrows deepened and he knocked again, louder.

"_Reid_?"

"Come in." The boy called softly. Gideon gently opened the door and stepped into the child's room. Reid was sitting up in bed, holding his plush dinosaur in one hand and his book of Robert Frost poetry in the other, staring across the room at his desk- at the poster above it- with glazed eyes.

"You okay, pal?"

"Yeah," Reid said in a monotone.

"You sure? You seem a little...disoriented."

Spencer Reid shrugged indifferently.

"Come on, Reid. Talk to me. Rossi is worried about you."

"I told him I was fine."

"Are you?" Gideon pressed softly.

"I think so."

"What's going on?" Gideon asked. He walked over to the boy's bed and sat down, eyes focused on the child, on his face and expression, but most of all his eyes.

"Nothing is going on."

"_Reid_...come on. Talk to me, pal."

Gideon didn't expect Reid to say much more. The child seemed completely closed off. Reid was silent for a long moment, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

"Things look weird. _Strange_." He finally said, softly, almost too soft for Gideon to hear.

"Weird? How do things look weird?"

"I feel like I am dreaming and everything looks odd...tunnel vision. I feel like I am dreaming."

Gideon sighed lightly. He'd guessed as much. "This ever happen to you before?" Jason Gideon finally asked the ten-year-old, careful not only in how he phrased the words but in his tone of voice.

Spencer Reid was silent even longer this time, until Gideon began feeling dread creep up from the pit of his stomach. Finally Reid nodded.

"Yes...but not often. And never suddenly. Not like...not like this."

"Okay. Reid. You know what...dissociation is right? When we get stressed, or traumatized, we can become prone to states that help our..."

"I_ know_ what it is." The boy said simply, cutting Gideon off. "I'm not stupid. Even in_ this_ state."

Gideon smiled compassionately. "I am going to go make dinner. Do you want to stay in here... or would you rather come back out and do something? Maybe watch television with Rossi, or read a book or..."

"I think I want to stay here. If that's okay."

"That's okay," Gideon assured the child. "That's fine. You just call if you need anything, okay?"

"I'm slightly dissociated, Gid-yun, I'm not psychotic. Stop worrying." Said in the same dull, flat monotone. Gideon swallowed and nodded.

"Okay, pal."

* * *

They ate dinner in the dining room. Reid pushed his chicken and potatoes around on the plate, sunglasses back in place. Gideon knew by now that whenever the kid put on his shades, he felt threatened, or scared or sick in some way. It was actually a benefit, in a way, those sunglasses. An obvious, tangible sign that the kid was flagging.

Gideon and Rossi made small talk about cases, without getting into gory details. Towards the end of the meal Reid lifted his head slightly, ate a mouthful of mashed potatoes and gulped noisily.

"I'm sorry, David," He said to Rossi. He sounded exhausted.

"What...what are you_ sorry_ for?" Rossi said kindly, shovelling some more chicken into his mouth.

"I... thank you for my presents. And I am sorry I wasn't good today." Reid looked back down at his food and pushed the chicken and potatoes around some more. Gideon and Rossi exchanged a concerned look.

"Reid, you were fine. I really enjoyed meeting you. I can't think of a better way to have spent my day off." Rossi said honestly, hoping but not fully believing that the child would believe him. Spencer shrugged and ate another bite of potatoes.

Neither Rossi nor Gideon were ready for what Reid said next.

"I'm sorry I am..._ was..._ a freak." And he took another bite of potatoes, the gravy ebbing at the corners of his mouth.

Rossi looked over at Gideon and raised his eyebrows. Gideon sighed. Right now was not the time for the discussion that needed to take place.

"I really like my toys," Reid said after a prolonged moment, sensing the awkwardness of the situation. Rossi looked at Gideon and grinned slightly.

"I am glad. You still going to bug Jason for a Nintendo?"

"Don't give him _ideas_, David..." Gideon said mildly, hoping to diffuse the anxiety he felt radiating off his foster son in waves.

"I think he'd like one," Rossi persisted, and shovelled another forkful of chicken into his mouth. "Real fun. A friend's kid got me into them. Mario Brothers three, that's my favourite so far..."

Gideon smiled and looked over at Reid. The boy was still staring at his plate dismally, moving food around like dinner was some sort of puzzle he had to figure out...or _else_.

"Maybe I will get him a Nintendo... would you like that, buddy?" Gideon finally murmured.

The silence was long. Reid was building little mountains with his mashed potatoes. Finally he glanced up. Nodded his head.

"Maybe a Christmas present, huh?"

"I'm going to be here until Christmas?" Reid asked, his voice rising a little with hope. Gideon shrugged. He had no idea, really, how long Reid would be with him. If he had his way, he'd be eligible to adopt the kid, but that wasn't an option. His father was an attorney, and as disturbed...and _disturbing_...as his mother was, they still had legal rights. Which meant they'd probably get their son back, eventually.

"I hope so, pal." Gideon said honestly, in response to Reid's question.

"Nintendo systems are one of those toys that are fun any time of the year," Rossi interrupted, sensing the tension. "_Loads_ of fun."

"Do you still want to take me to the BAU, Rossi?" Reid asked, switching back from first-name-basis to last names. At least for the moment.

"Yeah. For sure. When you're up and about, Reid, I think that would be super cool."

Reid smiled a little and ate another mouthful of mashed potatoes.

"Thanks," the boy said, mouth half-full.

"You're more than welcome."

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Okay, more little Reid angst coming. Sorry for any typos that snuck by. I actually write more when drunk and it's rawer and better, but it means more typos. Enjoy and **please review!**


	15. Chapter 15: Disclosure

**Title:** Losing My Religion by Lexikal (Chapter Fifteen)  
**Rating:** M for graphic violence against a child and language (in the first chapter, chapter 8 and chapter 10 so far)  
**Fandom:** Criminal Minds  
**Summary:** After two years away from his father and his father's violent rages, Spencer Reid, now ten, is returned home. Spencer has changed... but has William Reid?

**Author's Note:** Thanks again for the reviews, sorry for the lag on the update, been tirrrrrred. And then there is that pesky thing called life to contend with. But honestly, reviews are like coffee for me. I tend to write more when I get them (hint, hint)!

**Chapter Note:** This chapter deals with **non-graphic sexual abuse of a child**. Please read with caution. After the episode "Memoriam" I was certain the show was going to deal with something like this, especially after Reid was hypnotized (I don't think the show ever fully explained, at least not well enough to my liking, why Reid said some of the things he did while under hypnosis). I promise this chapter is not graphic as far as the description of sexual abuse goes, but Reid DOES freak out. Later chapters will be lighter again (have to balance the heavy stuff with funny stuff!) Thanks. **Please review!**

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The screams were vibrating through the walls. He'd been dreaming of a case, involving children, a very nasty case and the kids hadn't been saved in time, just small, cold bodies left for them to find and...

"MOMMY! MOMMY! Mommy help me! HELP! _HELP ME_!"

Jason Gideon bolted upright, shivering, and wiped his brow. His heart was racing, but the screaming continued.

"_Mommy_! Please help! Help me! Help me! Help me _Moooooooomy_!" _Reid._

Jason Gideon sighed and got out of bed. Reid had been asleep for about four hours. They'd stayed up almost until midnight, Reid cradled slightly in Gideon's arms, watching television, the boy quoting statistics and mumbling to himself, asking every so often if he thought he'd made a bad impression on David Rossi, to which Gideon had repeatedly said "No, pal, I think he really enjoyed his visit". It was nearly 4:00 in the morning now.

God._ God_. The screams were still going on. And they were louder than the first night, tinged with sheer pain and panic that made Jason Gideon's stomach flip flop and knot both at the same time. He blinked and was out of bed, completely awake. He took the stairs two at a time down to his kid's room. Burst in through the door.

"_Reid_!"

Spencer Reid was huddled under his desk. The bed was a mess, the blankets dishevelled. Not again. Gideon approached the bed and felt it. Wet. The kid had wet the bed. First time he'd ever known Spencer Reid to wet the bed. It didn't bode well with the screaming and the wild look on the kid's face and the way he was gripping his plush dinosaur to his face and moaning. Rocking. Gideon sat down and shuffled near the desk and Reid's screams went up a few octaves.

"Reid, buddy, it's me... It's _Gideon_."

"Mommy! Mommy! Mommy help _me_!" The panic on the child's face was terrible to see. The front of Reid's shirt was wet with sweat.

"Reid, come on, pal, wake up, buddy..."

Reid continued to scream bloody murder. He probably would've scrambled away and tried to run, if not for the damn cast.

"Reid! Come on, now! Wake up, it's _me_..."

"MOMMY!"

Jason Gideon shut his eyes. The screaming itself was nerve-wracking coming from such a young child. But the sheer terror in the boy's eyes was somehow worse. Gideon kept his eyes shut. He had loads of experience profiling psychopaths and killers. But.._.very_ little experience calming down a terrified child. A terrified child victim.

"Reid, buddy, It's _Gideon_..." He opened his eyes then, not sure what to do. His first instincts were to try and hold Reid, but Reid was hiding under the desk, obviously petrified of touch. Gideon felt something ancient and cold sink in his gut, something he had suspected for a long time, something he hadn't wanted to admit might be true. He got up then, ignoring the child, the room, and quickly went to his den. He got his cassette recorder and a new tape and came back, ignoring the way his stomach twisted and wanted to spew bile into his throat. There would be plenty of time later to grieve for this boy.

"_Spencer_!" Gideon said sharply, but not unkindly, hoping to gain the boy's attention. The child under the desk stopped screaming but was staring at him wide-eyed, like a deer frozen in the headlights of a vehicle. Gideon smiled. At least he hoped it looked like a smile.

"Spencer...it's me, it's Gideon..."

There was still no recognition on the face, just an eerie, blank emptiness. A void of terror. The boy was hyperventilating.

"Spencer, I want you to come out from under the desk, okay? I'm going to help you... _okay_?"

Still no response. Gideon sighed and gently reached under and pulled the child towards him. Reid was shuddering in his arms.

"Good boy," Gideon soothed as he cradled the child in his lap. "Good boy. _Good boy_."

"_Mommy_!" Reid shouted suddenly, and it was then, and only then, that Gideon realized what was so different about _this_ screaming. Reid's voice sounded even younger than it's very young ten years. Much younger.

"You want your Mommy?" Gideon asked gently, holding the hot, sweaty child against his chest. Spencer Reid didn't resist, not exactly, but holding him was like cradling a bundle of wood.

"Mommy! Mommy!"

"Mommy's not here, Spencer. Mommy's not here. I'm here, though. You're safe, buddy..."

"Mommy, help _me_!" But the screaming had dropped to a low pleading.

"Shhh...Buddy, it's okay,_ I'm_ here."

"_Mommy_!" Reid insisted, his face feverish against Gideon's chest, his head- what was starting to become hair- covered with sweat.

"Mommy can't come right now."

Gideon eased them gently onto the bed then, slowly, murmuring reassurances to the child in his care. He pressed the record button on the tape recorder and waited, hoping that whatever Reid said tonight wouldn't be significant enough to need to be tape-recorded, and knowing, already, that in all likelihood whatever the kid said needed to be recorded. The first night had been bad. But this was an entirely different ballgame. Reid had been dazed and confused all afternoon, and this...whatever it was...wasn't going away. He wasn't cognizant, didn't recognize where he was. Jason Gideon wasn't even certain the boy knew how old he was. He was trapped somewhere in nightmare land, and who knew how long it would be before he returned to lucidity.

"I want _Mommy_!" Reid cried when they were on the bed. Gideon continued to hold him, gently stroking the sweaty head.

"I know pal, shhhh..."

"Mommy!"

"Spencer, it's okay, it's okay, just calm down, okay pal? It's _okay_..." But he knew that wouldn't work. Gideon looked around and got up and grabbed the boy's plush dinosaur from under the desk and offered it to Reid, who snatched it away quickly like it was food and he was starving. He held the toy in front of his face and whined for his mother.

"Shhhhh..." Gideon murmured, rocking the child gently. With each passing second the sinking feeling in his stomach was growing larger.

It took awhile, but after about ten minutes Spencer Reid's screams died down to low, terrified moans. Low enough that Gideon could speak.

"I'm not going to hurt you, pal. It's okay. You have your dinosaur, there, see?"

"Yes." But the actual response sounded more like _yesh_.

"Spencer..." Gideon took a deep breath, knowing what questions to ask, what not to ask. What would be considered coaching. Luckily the boy piped up again.

"I want my Mommy!"

"Spencer, Mommy is not here right now. But I am here. I won't hurt you, okay, buddy? It's okay..."

There was something that sounded like a choked sob and the boy buried his face in the dinosaur and began to rock even harder.

"Spencer...do you think you can talk to me? What's going on?" He kept his voice light, much lighter than he felt. In all honesty, it felt like a ton of weights had been dropped on his chest.

"Daddy..._nooooo_..."

"You're scared of Daddy?"

"Daddy..._no_!" The boy said simply, breath hitching. The rocking intensified. Gideon sighed and shut his eyes.

"What are you scared of Spencer?" He would have called him Reid, but that name hadn't worked. For whatever reason, _Spencer_ was working, so he'd use it, at least for now.

"Daddy, go 'way..."

"Spencer, I know you're scared, buddy, but can you look at me? I'm your friend. I won't hurt you. Can you talk to me... come on, pal..."

Slowly the dinosaur plush-_Jason_-was lowered. The boy looking back at him was only Spencer Reid in the physical sense. Everything else that Jason Gideon knew of the child had been stripped away. He was looking at a shell of the child.

"Daddy..." the boy moaned miserably and took a few deep breaths. "Daddy!"

"You want your Daddy?" Gideon asked carefully, although he already knew the answer.

"_Noooo_...Mommy! Help _me_!"

"Spencer...do you think you can talk to me? I can make sure your Daddy won't hurt you."

There was a long moment of silence. Reid held onto his dinosaur and sniffled into it before finally nodding. Gideon smiled gently.

"How old are you, Spencer?"

Reid glanced around the room and opened his mouth. Shut it. Finally he wriggled and burrowed his face again.

"I dunno."

"Okay. That's _okay_. Why were you asking Mommy to help you?"

"_Mommy_!"

"I know you want Mommy...what...what are you afraid of, Spencer?"

Another long moment of silence. The rocking was slightly less now, but Reid was shivering.

"Make Daddy go away."

"You want me to make your Daddy go away?" Gideon asked carefully, making sure his voice was both neutral and reassuring. Reid nodded.

"What are you scared of, Spencer? Are you scared of your Daddy?"

"Mommy.._.help_..."

"Mommy is not here right now, Spencer. You have to talk to _me_, okay, pal? I can help you, but only if you talk to _me_. You have to tell me about what you're so scared of."

Reid rocked for a long time and Gideon cradled him and finally rocked him himself. He kept his eyes closed. He could feel the terror coming off his foster son in waves, and it was like nothing he'd ever felt from the boy. Frightening.

"Daddy'll get me..."

"I promise you, your Daddy won't get you... what are you so scared of, Spencer?"

He'd been expecting it a lot earlier, but it still hurt to hear it. The boy cracked then. He didn't just simply start to cry, but sob. His entire, small frame was wracked with sobs. Gideon cradled him and rocked him and kissed his almost-bald head, and rocked him some more. _God._

Spencer Reid sobbed for a long time, and all of it was caught on audio tape. More than twenty minutes of deep, gut wrenching sobbing that bordered on wailing at times. Something inside of the child sounded broken.

"Shhh, pal, shhh...it's okay. I'll help you. I'm your friend."

"Can't tell you. Daddy will know." Reid's voice was still high and younger than normal. Gideon swallowed and ground his teeth. He was cradling a traumatized child, but what he really wanted to do was end the life of a child abuser.

"Daddy won't know. Look..." Gideon reached forward and gently stroked Reid's dinosaur. "Do you think maybe your dinosaur might like to talk to me? Maybe he can talk to me for you?"

Reid considered this for a long moment, staring wide-eyed at the toy, before finally nodding solemnly.

And suddenly the voice changed, becoming low and gravelly. And Jason Gideon, a BAU agent who had dealt with what he thought was the worst of the worst as far as human beings went, felt the rug being pulled out from underneath him.

"Daddy hurt_ Spencer_," Reid said in the same, low gravelly voice. Gideon nodded and continued to rock the boy.

"Okay. How does he hurt _Spencer_?"

There was a long silence. Even using a dinosaur as a proxy, this information was apparently too taboo.

"How did Daddy hurt Spencer?" Gideon tried again, still using that same light, non-judgmental tone. Almost as if he were asking what cereal Reid wanted for breakfast or which of his toys he liked the most.

"He takes Spencer downstairs...to the_ basement_."

"Okay," Gideon breathed, still rocking the boy. "Okay. What happens in the basement?"

Spencer Reid moaned. His small hands were shaking. Gideon turned the child so he could see his face, and Reid held the dinosaur in front of his face, hiding.

"Would Spencer like his sunglasses?" Gideon asked then, hoping it would work. Reid continued to moan. He was picking at the collar of his t-shirt, but finally he nodded.

"Okay." Gideon smiled and got up off the bed, went over to Reid's desk where the sunglasses had been left earlier that evening and brought them back over to the child. Reid grabbed them and put them on.

"What happens in the basement?" Gideon coaxed, repositioning the boy in his lap. Reid's sweatpants were soaked with urine, but none of that mattered right now.

"Daddy _hurts_ Spencer."

"How..._how_ does Daddy hurt Spencer?" _No leading questions, Gideon. Follow his lead, and when he wants to stop talking, you stop. No matter how much you want to nail this bastard to the wall._

"_Hits _Spencer._ Kicks_ Spencer. _Burns _Spencer...sometimes he hurts him worse than _that_." The boy's voice was trembling.

"How else does he hurt Spencer?" Getting information out of Reid in this state was like pulling teeth.

"_Touches_ Spencer. Spencer feels bad. It hurts! Spencer feels bad, his stomach hurts..._mommy_!"

"Spencer, Mommy isn't here. But I'm here."

"Hurts Spencer between his legs. Hurts him_ there_. Mommy never comes. Spencer is sticky, and it's hard to sit down."

Gideon could taste bile now. He forced it back down his throat.

"Spencer doesn't want to talk anymore!" The plush dinosaur "said" in a low growl. "_No more talking_."

"Okay," Gideon said kindly. Honestly, he wasn't sure he wanted to listen to much more. The boy had told him enough, without getting into graphic details, and it was hard enough to hear. Jason Gideon remembered the look on William Reid's face when he mentioned rape, the stunned, shocked look that quickly faded. The man _had_ been nervous, though, and not because he was innocent. Then there had been the nurses at the hospital, concerned about Reid. They'd shared their concerns- especially their concern about how Reid had responded to the idea of having his pants cut off, of potentially being seen naked, of having his wounds photographed.

"That's okay. No more talking is okay. I'm going to go get you some clean sweatpants and a clean t-shirt, okay buddy?"

Reid nodded solemnly. Gideon pressed stop on his cassette recorder and gently got off the bed with a sigh. He placed the recorder on Reid's desk and then slowly, methodically, went to the boy's closet and pulled out a new t-shirt (Ninja Turtles) and another pair of sweatpants. He laid them on a dry part of the bed. Reid, for his part, was sitting in the exact same position, still clinging to his dinosaur. Gideon went into the washroom and filled up a pail with warm water and a tiny bit of soap and a wash cloth and came back.

"Spencer...pal...do you think you can take your sweatpants and t-shirt off?" he didn't want to ask him to undress, especially after_ that_ disclosure, but the kid was sticky with sweat, his sweatpants drenched with urine. He didn't want to bother trying to get new underwear on the kid... that would only prolong things.

"Why?" Reid squeaked, but something about his voice sounded...different. Older. He glanced around and then removed his sunglasses.

"_Gid-yun_? What's going on?"

"Nothing, pal. You just had a nightmare and...You wet the bed. The worker is coming in less than five hours now."

"I _wet_ the bed?" Reid asked, sounding mortified.

"Too much Pepsi, too many prescription pain pills...happens to the best of us." Gideon soothed. Reid nodded, but his face was dark red. He pulled off his t-shirt and Gideon dipped the washcloth into the warm water, wrung it out and handed it to Reid. Reid hastily wiped the sweat from his chest and arms to the best of his ability before handing the washcloth back to Gideon. Gideon took it without comment and filled it with clean water and then wrung it out again. Reid struggled out of his sweatpants and then his underwear and Gideon kept his head averted- only passing the washcloth back when the boy motioned for it. Finally a sweaty, wet bundle of clothes was left at the end of the bed, but at least Reid was dry and clean and dressed. Gideon scooped Reid into his wheelchair, and got up. He handed him the_ Simon_ game and then carried the clothes to the laundry room.

He_ really_ wanted to kill William Reid.

He came back to Reid's bedroom and grabbed an extra blanket from the closet and one of the pillows from Reid's bed and wheeled the boy into the living room. Reid was playing with the game, but his face was still very pink, etched with humiliation. Gideon gently picked the child up again and deposited him on the sofa, making sure he was comfortable.

"Do you...do you need to use the washroom, pal?"

Reid shook his head miserably.

"You sure?"

"Yes." Reid said in a whisper. "I...I am _sorry_, Gid-yun."

"Nothing at all to be sorry about. Like I said, it happens to the best of us."

"_You_ ever wet the bed?" Reid asked dully.

"Actually, yes. Too many pain killers, was in the hospital, couldn't get to the washroom in time and the nurses were understaffed." The lie was smooth, crystal clear, and he didn't feel badly about it. Not given the circumstances.

"Oh." Reid said simply, thankfully not pressing Jason Gideon for any more details. Gideon was asleep on his feet and Reid had eidetic memory. The less details involved in a lie, the less needed to be remembered; especially when dealing with an inquisitive, ten year old genius with a memory about as perfect as was possible in human beings.

"You _okay_? Want the television on?"

Reid shrugged. Gideon grabbed the remote control from the coffee table and handed it to the boy. Reid nodded silently and the TV popped on, a little too loud. Reid quickly lowered the volume and began to channel surf.

Gideon watched him carefully and knew the kid needed space. He didn't know how much of the evening's events Reid remembered, but even if he only remembered bits and pieces, he probably needed his space. Gideon went back to Spencer Reid's room and began to strip the sheets and blankets from the bed.

Hopefully Reid wouldn't look too upset or exhausted in the morning. When Gideon had stripped the bed, sprayed the room with air freshener, turned the mattress, remade Reid's bed and safely tucked the cassette recorder back into his pocket he wandered back out into the living room.

"Make sure you don't stay up all night watching television, pal." Gideon said softly, watching the back of the boy's head. Reid nodded.

"I won't."

Gideon nodded and proceeded to the kitchen.

"What are you doing?" Reid called from the living room.

"Just putting on some coffee." Gideon called back, lowering his own voice a little.

"Why? I thought we had to get some sleep."

When the pot was on and set to boil Gideon came back into the living room and sat down next to Reid on the sofa.

"Why are you making coffee if you need to go back to sleep? Won't the caffeine keep you awake?"

"I don't think I'll be able to sleep much more tonight, buddy."

"I'm sorry." Reid murmured again, and glanced back up at the television screen.

"No...It _wasn't_ you," Gideon assured. Reid shot him a sceptical look.

"I was having nightmares about a case," Gideon finally admitted. That, at least, wasn't a lie. But it wasn't the reason he didn't want to go back to sleep.

"Oh," Reid said simply. "I was having nightmares too." Reid said after a long moment, and turned back to watching some science fiction show. After a minute the boy became bored and put the show on mute.

"This show sucks. You want to watch the _Ninja Turtles_ movie Rossi gave me? I mean...since you're not going back to sleep?"

Gideon considered this and finally nodded his head. Sure. Why the hell not?

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End of chapter 15. I realize this chapter was highly angsty. Oh well. This entire story is kind of angsty, as it does deal with some really have topics, and a little traumatized Reid... not a recipe for fluff, I guess. **Please review.** I promise Reid will find some peace.


	16. Chapter 16: Trouble Brewing

**Title:** Losing My Religion by Lexikal (Chapter Sixteen)  
**Rating:** M for graphic violence against a child and language (in the first chapter, chapter 8 and chapter 10 so far)  
**Fandom:** Criminal Minds  
**Summary:** After two years away from his father and his father's violent rages, Spencer Reid, now ten, is returned home. Spencer has changed... but has William Reid?

**Author's Note:** Sorry for the lag in updating. Been away and busy! For those of you reading any of my other WIPs I can assure you they haven't been abandoned, I am just busy right now. I will finish all of them eventually.

**Chapter Note:** I'm sorry if anyone didn't like the turn the story took in the last chapter (15) but after thinking about "Memoriam" again it just seemed like too good an opportunity to pass up. I just needed to write it. **Please review!**

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Reid fell asleep before the movie was over, his face looking reasonably peaceful in the television light. Gideon turned the sound down a little but left the movie on, hoping that the background noise might keep Spencer asleep but might distract his brain, on some level, from another nightmare.

It wasn't even 6 am yet, but Jason Gideon knew there was no way in Hell he'd be getting back to sleep. Not tonight. He sat sipping cold coffee, itching for a beer. He watched Reid sleep, the slow rise and fall of the small chest, the slight creases that sometimes formed between Reid's eyebrows. Reid's hands would clench and unclench. Finally, at long last, he lay still, somewhere beyond dreaming.

At 7:30 Gideon went upstairs and got a shower and scrubbed himself, as if he wished he could scrub away all the evil and sins of the world. Scrub away the disgust he felt at the boy's disclosure, take out his brain and soak it in Clorox bleach. He towelled off and dressed and went down, drank another cup of coffee and slowly, methodically, went about preparing his own breakfast. Eggs and bacon, like usual. He really needed the routine today. He ate without tasting the food and woke Spencer at 8:15... The social worked would be here in 45 minutes. He'd let the boy sleep as long as he dared, but Reid was already dressed in clean clothes and only needed breakfast and maybe a bit of a pep talk.

"Reid, pal, c'mon... wake up," Gideon coaxed, shaking Reid lightly. The child's eyes fluttered opened and he glanced around the living room.

"Gid-yun...why am I sleeping on the couch?"

"You don't remember last night? Watching _Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles_ with me?"

Reid squinted. Finally nodded. He still looked confused though.

"I thought I dreamt we watched that movie," Reid said eventually, rubbing at his eyes.

"Nope. You had a bad dream..."

"I wet my bed." Reid muttered then, glancing down, cheeks reddening.

"No big deal... you remember anything else about last night?"

"No..._Why_?" Reid looked wary now, almost paranoid. Gideon sighed. Now was not the time to get into this.

"You just had a nightmare... and I was wondering how much you remembered. The social worker will be here in about..." Gideon glanced down at his watch "40 minutes now, so how about some breakfast?"

"I want to go back to sleep..." Reid mumbled and turned his head back towards the sofa cushions.

"I'm sure you do, buddy, but she's going to want to talk to you. So do you want cereal or...?"

"Trix. And coffee. Or I _will _fall back asleep."

Gideon sighed and rolled his eyes.

"I don't understand your problem with _coffee_. Pepsi has caffeine in it too. If I have a small cup, what difference does it_ really _make?" Reid smiled then, a cute, innocent little smile, but his eyelids were heavy and fluttering.

"Okay. You can have a small cup of coffee. _One_ cup and that's it. And your cereal."

"Hokay," Reid murmured tiredly. Gideon smiled, helped Reid into his chair and wheeled him into the dining room.

Reid ate his cereal slowly, mostly playing with the food instead of actually eating it. Every time he took a sip of coffee he'd sigh happily and look up at Gideon and grin.

"This is the only thing from Vegas I really miss."

"What?"

"_Coffee_," the boy said, as if it were obvious. "You make a good cup. Not too strong, rich flavour, full bodied."

"This is not going to be an everyday thing, Reid. You drinking coffee."

"I _always_ drank coffee at home. Especially before important tests."

"Yeah, well..." Gideon trailed. Maybe Reid drinking coffee wasn't that big of a deal, after all. He'd wait and see.

"Coffee is full of antioxidants and also good for digestion. Especially since I am chair-bound now..."

"We can discuss coffee later. Reid, the social worker is coming in about half an hour. Is there anything you want to discuss?"

Reid shrugged. Gideon guessed he was nervous and playing brave.

"Will she be nice?" He finally ventured.

"I don't know, honestly. I hope so."

"What is she going to want to talk to me about?"

"Probably how you're getting along here. If you like it here, things like that... she'll want to see your room probably, and the rest of the house. Make sure it is safe here and..."

Reid snorted. "Safe? Gimme a break..." He trailed off, looking annoyed. "Like they care about child safety..."

Gideon sighed. The boy had every right to be distrustful and angry. The system had failed him pretty much his entire life.

Gideon was silent for a moment, waiting for anything else but Reid was sullen. He took a bite of cereal and a few more gulps of coffee, then drained the coffee cup. "Good coffee. That wasn't decaf, was it?"

"No." Gideon assured, smiling a little.

"Good, because they use nasty chemicals to decaffeinate coffee. Can I go to my room and get my _Simon _game?"

"Are you done with your cereal?"

Reid nodded. Gideon nodded back and cleared the bowl and cup from the table and took them to the sink. Reid wheeled himself into his room and Gideon sighed, hoping the meeting would go well. Reid came out of his room ten minutes later, wearing his FBI t-shirt and cap and his sunglasses, but instead of the Simon game he had his toy Glock and handcuffs.

"Reid..." Gideon trailed warily.

'What?"

Gideon eyed the boy, trying to keep from laughing and finally shook his head.

"Nothing. You look great."

"Can we go to the library after she is gone?"

Gideon rubbed his eyes. Honestly, he'd hoped they could stay in today, maybe get some rest. Tomorrow was the dentist.

"I'm going crazy not being able to read," Reid explained. Gideon nodded.

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Reid cringed and startled a bit when the doorbell rang. Gideon looked over at him and smiled reassuringly.

"It'll be okay, Reid."

Reid nodded but didn't look convinced. He looked very, very nervous. Gideon smiled again and went to the front door and opened it.

The social worker was a small woman with dark brown hair cut in a bob, wearing a pant suit and a trench coat.

"Agent Gideon?" She asked and he nodded. She smiled and extended a hand.

"I'm Monica Sable, your case worker."

"Of course. Come in."

She stepped in and looked around and glanced back at Gideon and smiled.

"Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee?"

"I'm fine, thank you."

Gideon led her into the living room where Reid was sitting in his chair with the television on, trying to look nonchalant.

Reid turned his head woodenly as she approached, but made no move to remove his sunglasses. She blinked at his FBI get-up before recomposing herself and smiling.

"You must be Spencer," Monica Sable said kindly, walking up to him and bending down to make eye contact. Which was pretty much impossible considering Reid's eyes were hidden behind the shades.

"Reid, buddy, maybe you can take your sunglasses off?" Gideon coaxed. Reid shook his head.

"That's fine, Agent Gideon, I don't mind. So... you like to be called by your last name? Reid?"

Reid nodded. The social worker smiled.

"Okay, Reid, well my name is Monica Sable. I am your case worker. You can call me Monica or Mrs. Sable...whichever you feel more comfortable with."

Reid nodded silently. Monica glanced over at Gideon and Gideon shrugged and mouthed _He's a little bit shy_. She nodded and smiled back at Reid.

"I looked over your file, Reid. You sure have been through a lot in the last little while. It's okay if you don't feel like talking much. But... do you think you could show me your room?"

Reid nodded and began to wheel himself in the direction of his bedroom. Gideon followed.

"This is a great bedroom!" the social worker said enthusiastically as she glanced around. She walked by the bed and looked at the toys, the posters. "I hear that you're in the tenth grade, ready to go into the eleventh in September?"

"That's right." Reid said softly.

"Wow. You must be really,_ really_ smart."

Reid shrugged indifferently.

"Do you have any plans for Spen..._Reid_... attending school here, Agent Gideon?" Monica Sable glanced over at Gideon, and he shrugged.

"Since Reid is already so far ahead, and still healing, I thought some time off might be good for him."

The social worker nodded. "I understand your reasoning, but by law, he needs to be in school, unless he is hospitalized or has a psychiatric condition that prevents it."

"He still needs to speak to a child psychiatrist here for an assessment." Gideon said, and the social worker nodded.

"I was considering home schooling," Reid piped up softly. "Because teenagers tend to bully prepubescent children in high school, and I am already an autodidact."

Gideon and Monica Sable exchanged a look. This was the first time Gideon had heard of Reid wanting to home-school himself.

"Reid, has your IQ ever been tested?"

Spencer Reid shrugged. "I was given the WISC, but that has a fairly low ceiling. Anything above 130, it's not really designed to accurately gauge. The Stanford Binet can apparently measure IQs up to 164 reliably, but not much higher than that. I hit the ceilings on both the WISC and the Stanford Binet which puts my IQ at 164, minimally. Tests for IQs above that are called power tests and those, even more than the WISC and Stanford Binet, are highly controversial. The last psychologist I saw estimated that my IQ is probably in the 180s, but Intelligence testing is highly subjective depending upon the clinician and..."

Monica Sable laughed then. "That's okay. Thank you, though, that was very... informative."

"You're welcome," Reid said softly, suddenly feeling shy again.

"I'm going to go talk to...Gideon... it was really nice to meet you, Reid."

"You too."

Gideon followed her out of the bedroom and gently closed the door. The adults went into the dining room and sat.

Monica Sable sighed.

"You sure I can't offer you any coffee?" Gideon asked. She nodded.

"I think I'll have a cup."

Gideon nodded and went back into the kitchen and came back. He was going through coffee like crazy since Reid had arrived.

"He's obviously very bright. His file...it's horrific."

Gideon nodded. His file wasn't horrific, his history was. His file was the tip of the iceberg and very clinical, very sterile.

"You don't feel overwhelmed caring for a child with such unique needs?"

"Unique needs?"

"Well, the physical problems brought up by his injuries, for one. His intelligence..."

"No," Gideon said seriously. "I don't feel overwhelmed by Reid."

"How has he been coping? Any nightmares or panic attacks? Anything I need to know about?"

"He's had a few nightmares," Gideon admitted slowly. "He wet his bed last night and... well... more than that he disclosed something about his father, about his experiences that I don't think was ever formally recorded in his file, or even investigated."

Monica Sable took a sip of her coffee and looked at Gideon and waited.

"I think Reid was sexually abused. He was highly agitated last night, in some dissociative state apparently. I went to my den and got my cassette recorder and taped the disclosure. I...I didn't want to take a chance, I wanted it recorded for the authorities."

"How did you know he would disclose something?"

Gideon sighed wearily. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and thought for a moment before answering. "I've known Spencer over two years now. I used to volunteer a lot- when I wasn't working- at the Childhelp village he was put in at the age of eight. Last night... I've never seen him like that before. As a profiler, I just had a sense something was really off."

"And he disclosed sexual abuse?" Monica Sable looked like she'd just bitten into a lemon. Gideon nodded tiredly.

"I can get you the tape, if you need it? I really don't want William Reid ever getting his son back..."

The social worker nodded tiredly. Gideon got up and went into his den and retrieved the tape cassette, already labelled with the date and Spencer's name. He'd made an additional copy for himself, just in case the original happened to be misplaced. He brought it back and handed it to her.

"You realize the father already wants him back?" Monica Sable said then, slowly, testing the waters. Gideon bit down on his cheek and flexed his jaw, his eyes burning. He had guessed as much, but it still made him furious, the very idea.

"I didn't know that. I know he is an attorney."

"There is no chance of Reid being returned anytime soon... his father is still on probation and the case is still being reviewed, and that can and usually does take months. But _eventually_..."

"Reid can't go back to that..._man_. Ever."

"Have you spoken to him about seeing a child psychologist?"

"A few times. He didn't respond very well." Gideon said, sighing. "He thought it was an indication that he was crazy."

Monica Sable nodded. "Hopefully you can convince him."

"The physical injuries aren't bad enough? The man almost succeeded in killing him!"

"He'll argue that he didn't intend to harm the boy to that degree; that he was drunk and that Reid provoked him... and judges like to _preserve the unity of the family_." Monica Sable looked as tired and miserable as Gideon.

"Provoked _him_? Reid is a ten year old _child_ with a long history of documented, severe physical abuse! Does Reid have to _die_ before they realize the severity of this situation?" Gideon's voice had risen, was clipped with anger.

"Agent Gideon," Monica Sable said slowly, trying to diffuse the tension. "I _agree _with you. The system stinks. My job is to make sure Reid is stable here for as long as foster care is an option, and just so you know, from what I have seen, I can't think of a better place or home for Reid right now and my report will reflect that. But as for Reid being returned to his father... that is up to the judge and the court system, not me."

Gideon took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I...I know. I am sorry. Just... will you please listen to the tape?"

"I will. And I will make sure that it gets to the people above me that will need to hear it. But if it's... if he's disclosed abuse of that nature, they will no doubt order a psychiatric examination, and possibly a medical..."

Gideon shuddered. Could just imagine how well that would go over with Reid.

"I highly recommend you find a certified psychologist to see Reid as soon as possible. I can give you the names of some that are very good at what they do, people who specialize in treating traumatized children."

"I'd appreciate that."

The social worker glanced at her watch. "Look, I need to get going. Another home call. Please tell Reid that the home visit went well and that he doesn't have anything to worry about regarding my report."

"I will."

* * *

More coming when it comes... I will update The Blue Boy and This is My Last and Resort (and eventually, Coulrophobia, somebody remind me not to have 4 WIPs going at once in the future!)- I apologize in advance for any typos. When you have several stories going that are relatively complicated and you take long breaks between updating, mistakes happen. Thanks for reading, and **please review!** Lexikal


	17. Chapter 17: Castor and Pollux

**Title:** Losing My Religion by Lexikal (Chapter Seventeen)  
**Rating:** M for graphic violence against a child and language (in the first chapter, chapter 8 and chapter 10 so far)  
**Fandom:** Criminal Minds  
**Summary:** After two years away from his father and his father's violent rages, Spencer Reid, now ten, is returned home. Spencer has changed... but has William Reid?

**Author's Note:** I am so sorry for how long it's taken me to update this (I plan to keep trying to update this and my other WIP stories). I never planned to abandon them but I moved, then my computer went to Hell (I am borrowing a friend's to work on these). Anyway, sorry for the HUGE lag!

**Chapter Note:** When you take a really long time between updating chapters, sometimes some of the details and the "flow" of the story gets messed up. I'll try not to make any mistakes by reading the previous chapter but I don't have time to reread all my stories and take notes on all the various little details. I am sure detail oriented people will probably find some "goof ups" if they look, but if I don't try to continue, this will never get finished. Enjoy and **please review!**

* * *

"Reid?" Gideon tapped lightly on the boy's bedroom door.

"Come in," the boy squeaked. Gideon edged the door open and peered inside. Reid was holding his dinosaur, flipping through a book on abnormal psychology he must have found in Gideon's den. Gideon was happy that the home visit had gone well, but his stomach was also starting to ache. William Reid wanted his son back. Reid would have to see a shrink. Probably a medical doctor too. He'd been seen in the hospital, of course, and his physical abuse injuries had been documented and photographed, but he'd never divulged sexual abuse before. He would try to deny it, and the more Gideon thought about it, and the fact that he of all people had been the one to record Reid's disclosure, the sicker he felt. He hadn't been betraying Reid, of course. To have done anything else when he'd had his own hunches would've not only been irresponsible but unethical.

He doubted Reid would be as understanding.

"What's wrong?" Reid said and Gideon mentally tried to smooth the lines in his brow. He knew the kid was watching him closely, eyes scanning back and forth over his face like lasers.

"it went well."

"Something is wrong," Reid said, and his voice sounded a little higher than normal. Calm on the surface, but with an undertone of intense anxiety. Now was not the time to get into everything. The kid had to see the dentist tomorrow- a specialist- and given the disclosure that might be even harder than Jason Gideon had originally anticipated.

"Reid, she read your file. You know, buddy... they're going to want you to see a child psychologist. To help make a case for why you can't go back. It will be your chance to tell your side of the story."

Reid was shaking his head. "I doan' wanna'."

But his voice sounded more shiny and petulant now then outright anxious. Gideon knew the rest would come out eventually, but not now. One hurdle at a time. Don't overload the boy.

"So...you want to go to the library today, huh?"

Reid nodded, but he was lacking his usual enthusiasm.

"Do you want to wear your FBI gear?"

"No, I'll change."

"Okay...let's try to get home fairly early, okay, though, Buddy? Remember, I told you, you have to go see the dentist tomorrow?"

"Yeah." Reid sounded sullen, but not even as much as he had when he'd protested the kiddie shrink.

"Gid-yun?"

"Yeah?"

"We can get the rats and their cage and stuff after the library? I mean, that's why I am going, is mainly to get books on rats and rat care."

Gideon exhaled lightly. Had he really expected the boy to forget about the rats? No. Not really. He'd hoped, but he hadn't expected Reid to forget, especially not something as potentially annoying as pet rats. Gideon tried to smile. He knew if Reid thought he was just getting rats to placate him, Reid would feel guilty. Bad. And that was the last thing the profiler wanted to do. Make the kid feel like shit on top of everything else.

"Yeah, sure buddy. Of course. The rats. I wouldn't have it any other way."

Spencer Reid brightened considerably then and began to pull off his FBI shirt. He let it drop to the floor and rolled himself none-too-slowly to his closet and yanked a Star Trek t-shirt off the hanger.

"I was thinking about getting a Blue Dumbo. I think they are very cute. I mean...two Blue Dumbos. Cause we are getting two, so they can socialize and don't become neurotic. Remember what Rossi said?"

"I remember." Gideon intoned.

Reid was oblivious to the slightly baleful tone of voice.

"Do you think they'll have Blue Dumbos where we are going, Gid-Yun? Gid-Yun? Where are we going?"

"Uh... the mall?"

"Do they sell Blue Dumbos?" The shades were back in place but the kid couldn't keep the grin out of his voice. If he hadn't been in a cast he probably would have been jumping up and down.

"I honestly don't know."

"Maybe they only have hooded rats. They are pretty common. But I wouldn't mind. But we have to remember a big enough cage, and a wire top so they get good ventilation, and maybe some hammocks and lots of toys and..."

Shit. This was going to cost an arm and a leg. The kid would decide he wanted to build them a house-wide tunnel, next, and... he had to stop this.

"Reid, you have any ideas what you're going to call your rats?"

"You have to wait until you see them. How can you possibly name something before you see it?"

Gideon shrugged.

"Reid, I'm going to go to the kitchen for a second. Be right back."

"Why?"

"Uh...aspirin. Good for the blood. Be right back."

"Hokay."

* * *

They spent a surprisingly short amount of time in the library, much to Jason Gideon's relief. Reid had asked to be pushed down the "rat" section and had proceeded to request that every book available on the subject be tossed into the basket. At around that time the boy wonder realized that the number of books focusing on "rats" alone would overflow the small black, plastic book basket the library offered its' patrons. He scowled.

"Why don't they have carts? They should really have carts so people are not wasting their time here."

Gideon, pushing the boy, rolled his eyes to the heavens.

"They have a limit on the number of books you can take out at one time, Reid."

'What? Why?"

Gideon bit his tongue. No sarcasm. No sarcasm.

"Because most people don't read as fast as you do and would take out more than they needed and forget to return them."

"Oh. But we can take out as many as we want, right, Gid-Yun?"

"I'll let you use my library card and not register you for a child's card."

"What does that mean?" Reid inquired, trying to crane his head backwards to see Gideon's face and failing.

"it means that you'll be able to read books that aren't only in the Children's Section."

"But I can take out as many as I want, huh?"

"No. I'll let you take out ten at a time."

"Ten? I can read ten in a _day_!" Reid sounded mildly insulted, as if Gideon had just suggested he read Green Eggs and Ham. And use a dictionary.

"Yeah, well...they have videos here too. Why don't we take out some videos too?"

Why hadn't he thought of that before? The public library probably had a lot of foreign stuff and documentaries that a kid like Reid would just eat up. Maybe.

"Do they have Fellini films?"

Gideon sighed. Thought about the little sony walkman he kept in a desk drawer at home so he could listen to music on road trips or plane trips with the bureau. Maybe they could grab some cassette tapes too, and hopefully, if there was anything close to resembling a God, maybe Reid would be so enamoured with the music that he would just meditate to Bach or something for a good half hour. Maybe.

"Gid-Yun? Do they have Fellini films?"

"Probably. Which of these rat books do you want?"

"I can only take out ten books on a certain subject, right?" Reid's voice was lilting, coaxing. Yeah, the kid was definitely from Vegas.

"Ten books_ total_. If you take out ten books on rats, that's your literary allocation gone."

Reid sighed miserably. Pointed at two, very thick, hard-covered books with glossy color photographs and gestured that they should be added to the basket. The rest were left in a heap at the end of the aisle to be re-shelved.

The rest of the library excursion went much more smoothly. Spencer Reid was either annoyed that he couldn't take out more books, or he wanted to get his rats before his pain meds kicked in and he lost the chance.

* * *

Gideon went to the closest mall he knew had a pet store and pushed Reid inside. Reid was flagging, his eyelids fluttering from the stress of the last few days, the home visit and his earlier pain meds and Gideon needed him awake to at least chose his pets. If they didn't get them today, well, Reid would be disappointed at the very least. And the kid had a lot of tough stuff, to put it mildly, coming up.

They stopped in the food court and Gideon ordered two coffees, ignoring the dirty look the cashier gave him when he bent down and presented the beverage to his foster son.

"Reid, buddy. I got you a coffee. You got to wake up a little bit, okay? We're here. We're going to get your rats."

It was ironic, really. Reid wanted the rats, not him, and it was Jason Gideon who was trying to wake Reid up so...Gideon smiled to himself as Reid's eyelids fluttered over, glazed with medication-haze and fatigue.

"Coffee?"

"Yeah. Might perk you up a little bit so you can stay awake for your rats? Okay?"

"Sure." Reid mumbled sleepily and head out his hand for the coffee. Gideon handed him the drink and kept one hand on the Styrofoam cup, tilting it gently to help Reid drink so he wouldn't accidentally drop it and burn his lap.

Reid smacked his lips when he was done. Gideon downed his drink, threw the cups out, and wheeled the boy quickly through the packed mall.

"There are rats in here?"

"Yeah. At the pet store."

"Blue Dumbos?"

"I don't know. But you'll be happy with regular rats, too, right?"

Reid didn't try to correct Gideon, didn't nitpick the fact that there was no such thing as "regular" rats. He just nodded and smiled dumbly.

Gideon would've walked right past the pet store, he was almost as tired as his charge, but the barking and squawking was a dead give away. They entered and Gideon but the brakes on the chair and called over a rather stoned looking young employee. The kid was wearing a red vest that said "Pet Universe" on it in bright white letters and his eyes were glazed and blood shot. He had a funny little smile on his face, like he had just heard the world's best (or worst) dirtiest joke and was trying to keep from laughing out loud. But the store was empty.

_Great._

Gideon scanned the vest, saw the name tag, and looked back at the kid.

"Jared. Hi. I am trying to find some rats for this little boy, here. He was wondering if you have Blue Dumbos?"

"No Dumbos, man. No speciality rodents, right? We only have feeders."

Gideon glanced back at Reid and saw his face fall.

"Feeders?" Jason Gideon asked uncertainly.

"They're cool, you know? Nothing wrong with them. They're babies, but they're not _Dumbos_. Man, Dumbos are so gnarly. Big huge ears, they make me laugh. They must have got the name from that cartoon elephant Dumbo, you think? Funny looking. Make me laugh." Jared the pet store employee did laugh then, a high pitched little squeak.

"Um..yeah. Feeders? Can they be _pets_?" _Please don't be as high as you look, moron._

"Yeah, most people feed them to their snakes though."

Gideon heard Reid gulp noisily behind him.

"We got pinkies too." Jared was grinning wildly.

"Pinkies?"

"Yeah, newborn rats, right? All pink, no hair? But they would make bad pets, cause they're in the freezer. They're for smaller snakes."

Gideon exhaled slowly. Don't get angry. Not in front of Reid.

"Feeders are fine." Reid said then, his voice resolute. "Two boys."

"You wanna pick them? We got some real fat ones. Better meal for your boa."

Gideon shut his eyes. What was this kid smoking?

Gideon turned to face Reid, smiled warmly at him. Reid looked a tad paler than usual. Jared wouldn't have noticed it, but to Jason Gideon it was obvious.

"Reid? You want to pick your_ pets_?"

"Um. No. No thank you. Just two males. Litter-mates. _Brothers_."

"Got it!" Jared said brightly and scampered off to get the rats.

'Reid, would you like me to go get a ferret cage and some wood chips and stuff?"

"Yeah, um...here." Reid fumbled and pulled a folded piece of loose leaf out of his sweat pants' pocket. Gideon unfolded it and read it. It was a list of necessary "rat" items with small stars drawn next to the "most important items."

Gideon had the cage, wood chips, food dish, food, water bottle, wheel, plastic house and two hammocks lined up on the linoleum counter top by the time Jared came back with a small cardboard box with holes in the lid.

"Two males, right? Brothers?" The teen asked Gideon groggily and Gideon nodded.

"Um...can I see them first?" Reid asked shyly.

"Reid, pal... remember I asked if you wanted to pick them?"

"I- I just want to make sure they are both males. Babies...it can be hard to tell."

Gideon nodded. Smiled a broad, genuine smile. _Good call, Reid._

Spencer Reid gingerly opened the top of the cardboard box and gently picked up one of the tiny little rats. He stared at it's abdominal region for a few seconds, returned it and picked up its' litter mate. Gideon could see that they were both white and about the size of mice.

"They're both male." Reid confirmed, smiling a little down at the now-closed box.

"They...they're pretty small. For rats...aren't they..." Gideon hedged.

"They're_ rats_, Gid-Yun. Just really young. Probably should still be nursing and..."

"Should I ring this up, too?" Jared interjected, motioning the pile of rodent supplies on the counter. Gideon nodded and pulled out his Visa and handed it to the young man without another word.

"Hey, dude..." Jared called as Gideon walked with the cage towards the exit. All the rat supplies, including the rats in their cardboard box, had been hastily stuffed in the cage. Reid had perked up a bit from the coffee and was wheeling himself.

"Yes?" Gideon asked, somewhat warily and turned to face the cashier.

"You know, you can't keep ferrets and rats together right? Ferrets won't eat rats, man."

Gideon sighed and kept walking.

* * *

The cage was set up on front of Reid's desk so the child could wheel himself to it and remove the rats fairly easily, without Gideon's assistance. Gideon had quickly tossed some pine chips on the bottom, attached the water bottle, filled a small ceramic bowl filled with food and then placed the other objects in the cage as per Reid's instructions.

The rats looked nearly identical. Both were white, with beady, pink eyes. Reid seemed mesmerized. He has a soft, compassionate smile on his face and he sat in his chair, heavy lidded, watching as the baby rats acclimated to their new habitat.

One of them was running on the wheel, stopping every few seconds to sniff the air. The other kept checking out the rather large, blue plastic house in the middle of the cage. They both seemed slightly bewildered.

"So...you got names for them yet?"

"They're white, and they're rats, and rats are naturally bright. Intelligent. And they look similar. I was thinking..." Reid pointed to the rat running on the wheel. "His name is Castor. Second brightest star in the constellation Gemini."

"So his brother, the little guy in the house, is Pollux right? The brighter of the two stars?"

Reid nodded simply.

"Why is the little guy on the feel...not as bright as the rat in the house?"

"Because...they were _feeders_. They were meant to be fed to snakes. Hiding would make more sense in that situation." Reid looked sadly at the rats.

"That really upset you, didn't it, Reid? When that...when the young man said the rats in the store were meant to be snake food?"

"Yeah. I guess. I mean, I know it happens all the time. Animals are killed for meat. I've eaten meat. You eat meat. But... I guess I just wasn't expecting living animals...in a pet store... to be food for something else."

Gideon nodded. Came over to Reid's bed and sat down on the edge so he could look at the boy, make proper eye contact.

'Why didn't you want to chose the rats?"

Reid made a face and glanced back towards the rats currently scuttling around in his cage.

"I knew...I knew I wouldn't be able to choose which ones to save and which ones to...I didn't want to chose. This way, it's fated. These are the ones I am supposed to have."

"Yeah."

The rats were now both in a corner of the cage, holding sunflower seeds in their tiny, pink fingers and eating hurriedly.

"They're sure cute, huh?" Gideon said brightly, trying to diffuse the morbid quality to Reid's comments.

"Yeah." Reid said simply, and smiled at the animals again.

"I...are you going to be able to tell them apart? They look pretty similar to me."

"They look different enough to me. That one's Castor." Reid said, pointing to the rat hunching closest to Gideon.

"I don't know if I believe you..." Gideon said in a teasing tone of voice. Reid caught his eyes and grinned.

"Just wait."

Sure enough, when they were done gorging, the one Reid had said was Castor hurried back to the wheel. Pollux climbed up the side of the cage and disappeared into a hammock.

Gideon looked sideways at Reid, at the profile of his face. It wasn't even 3:00 P.M. yet but the kid was tuckered out. They'd eat a light supper later, and then nap. Sleep. Rest. Tomorrow would be a big day.

But for now, right now, it was nice to see Reid relaxed, smiling benevolently at his two new pets. His first pets ever.

The moment was too important to ruin it by taking a photograph.

* * *

**Again, sorry on it taking over 6 MONTHS to update. I do plan to update my other fan fic WIPS, too, but life is still hectic (although, luckily I have a computer now). I will try to write at least a chapter every other day so the other stories WILL be addressed, too. Please rate and review. Thanks again, and again, sorry for the huge delay. -Lexikal**


	18. Chapter 18: Chompers

**Title:** Losing My Religion by Lexikal (Chapter Eighteen)  
**Rating:** M for graphic violence against a child and language (in the first chapter, chapter 8 and chapter 10 so far)  
**Fandom:** Criminal Minds  
**Summary:** After two years away from his father and his father's violent rages, Spencer Reid, now ten, is returned home. Spencer has changed... but has William Reid?

**Author's Note:** I just re-read chapter 17 so I could write this chapter and noticed all the typos. I wanted to write it and post it. I should have at least scanned it for spelling mistakes and basic typos. Sorry about that. I don't think I will add to any of my other WIPS until this story is done, in case anyone is wondering. One at a time.

**Chapter Note:** Hopefully there will be less typos in this chapter than last. Sorry about that, guys.

* * *

They had a simple dinner around 6 P.M. and then Gideon got a bucket of warm, soapy water ready for Reid's sponge bath. Reid sighed, wheeled himself to the bathroom without a word, and went through the motions. He seemed utterly exhausted and was unnaturally quiet.

"You okay?"

"Yeah. I like my rats. Thanks, Gideon."

Gideon, gently washing the scarred, tortured flesh smiled to himself.

"You're more than welcome, Reid."

"Why did you ask if I was okay just now?" Reid's voice sounded pale. Worn out. The kid had gone for as long as he could and now he was just plain exhausted.

"You just... you're quieter than normal."

"Just tired." Reid said honestly, although Gideon knew that was an understatement.

Gideon wrung the face cloth out and handed it to Reid. He turned away and let Reid have his privacy. Back to Reid, he said: "Worried about tomorrow?"

"The Dentist?" Reid said unnecessarily.

"Yes."

"Maybe a little. But they won't be doing any dental surgery tomorrow, right?" Reid didn't sound nervous because he already knew there wouldn't be any dental surgery tomorrow. Gideon had already discussed what he knew of the procedure with Reid, being as sensitive as possible. Although he guessed Reid already knew more.

First, a dentist would, most likely, put him out under general anaesthesia, not only because the surgery itself was considered fairly invasive but because Reid was prone to panicking. Gideon had spent time on the phone discussing other options, after Reid had suggested general anaesthesia might be overkill, and the possibility of twilight sedation had been brought up. Whatever route was taken, Reid would be far less cognizant and aware than usual, if not completely unconscious, and Gideon knew that scenario frightened Reid. With good reason, of course.

"No dental surgery tomorrow. You know you have to fast first." Gideon responded to the boy's question.

"Yeah. And whether it's general anaesthesia or twilight sedation, you'll be in the room with me, right, Gid-Yun?"

"Of course. I promised, didn't I?" Gideon's voice was soft, reassuring. Reid had never said why it was so important Gideon remain in the room with him during the procedure, and maybe the boy didn't even consciously know. When Gideon had first started to explain the procedure to Reid, Spencer Reid's face had lit up with panic at the thought of being alone with some unknown man, dentist or not, and drugged to boot. Gideon had immediately promised, then and there, to stay with Reid in the room throughout the procedure, promising even before he had phoned to see if the dentist would allow it.

The dentist Gideon had first chosen, thank god, knew the boy was having dental implants to replace teeth that had been knocked out because of physical abuse and had been more than willing it accommodate.

Reid was finished washing himself.

"You can turn around now." The boy said groggily and handed the wash cloth back to Gideon. Gideon took the bucket of water and the cloth and drained it all down the sink.

Reid let Gideon dry his chest and arms and help him into his night shirt.

"So we are just going tomorrow so I can meet the dentist, sit in the chair; see the facilities?"

Gideon nodded. They'd been over this several times during the course of the day, including at dinner. He knew Reid needed the reassurance.

"He also might want to look in your mouth, to see what sort of surgery they're going to do."

There were two options available. One was to implant what amounted to screws into the empty sockets and wait two to six months for the bone to tighten and heal. This would be the most invasive part of the surgery by far, and the more painful. After that, Reid would come back and have the fake teeth basically screwed onto the implants.

There were problems with that scenario. Undergoing any sort of dental procedure, especially at this point in his life, would be traumatic for the kid, so it was important to keep the number or procedures to a minimum. Also, it was felt, Reid's self esteem might improve if his "teeth" could be replaced sooner. Another option was to have Reid come in, implant what Gideon had come to mentally call the "screws", put the fake teeth on that day, and bring Reid home. Because he was a child his bone would heal faster, and as long as he took it easy and consumed mostly clear fluids, well... both Gideon and the paediatric dentist he had chosen to see Reid believed this to be the better option.

"Look in my mouth. I can handle that." Reid said rather shakily. Gideon nodded and smiled warmly.

"And I'll be in the room with you the entire time tomorrow." Gideon added.

"And the next day, during the surgery... you'll be there too? The _whole_ time?"

"Yes."

Both Gideon, the dentist, and Reid himself felt that it was wise to complete the actual surgery as fast as possible, so Reid had less time to worry about it and worry himself into a frenzy. The boy already knew the basics. First, he would be put under some sort of anaesthesia, either general or twilight sedation. The areas that were going to be operated on would be numbed with local anaesthesia. Incisions would then be made in his gums where the implants would be placed. Then a special drill would be used to make holes into the jawbone where the implants would be inserted. Titanium rods would be screwed into the holes and into the jaw bone- and- more than likely, the fake teeth would be attached to the titanium rods that day. The incised gums would then be stitched and packed with gauze. If, for some reason, the fake teeth weren't attached to the titanium rods that day, bridges or dentures would be placed over the implants until the bone had healed, at which time the permanent "teeth" would be attached.

Oh yeah, and it would hurt a hell of a lot and Reid would be even groggier than usual and on even more pain meds for a while. Reid had recited the surgery, point by point to Gideon, at supper, and then again before his bath. Gideon knew the kid already had the steps memorized. He'd memorized them the first time he'd heard them. The recitation had more to do with seeking comfort and reassurance, than anything. Not for the first time since this latest attack, Gideon felt a surge of anger towards William Reid. The abuse had been heinous enough, but the kid was still suffering now, and would be for months, if not years to come.

"But tomorrow, I just meet him, and can see the office and ask questions, and sit in the chair and see if I like him and his assistants, right?" Reid's voice was speedy, charged with adrenaline.

"Yes, buddy. And he'll probably want to look at your mouth really fast, just to get a better picture of what needs to be done."

"And you'll be there." Reid stated adamantly. Gideon nodded and helped Reid pull his nightshirt over his head. He put a hand gently on the boy's head, and smiled sadly at the peach fuzz he felt under his palm.

"Your hair is coming in, nicely."

"Yeah," Reid said dully.

"Just think how long it will be by the time your dental implants have healed? And by the time you're out of that cast?"

"Yeah," Reid said again, but he sounded a little more optimistic this time. "Probably will cover the scars on my head."

"Most definitely. And by Christmas, you'll be looking kind of shaggy again." Gideon encouraged. Reid nodded his head.

"I will still be with you at Christmas, won't I, Gid-Yun?"

Jason Gideon, at that moment in time, didn't have the heart to be honest and say the truth: that he didn't know.

"Yes, Reid, you will be."

Spencer Reid smiled dazedly. Jason Gideon would fight tooth and nail to make sure that boy was with him for Christmas. Longer if possible. The very idea that William Reid thought he deserved to ever have Spencer back was an insult to Jason Gideon, an insult and a perversion in and of itself. The man- if one could even call him that- deserved an extended stretch in jail at the very least, and not the dubiously helpful "anger management classes" that served as his current "punishment".

"Ready for bed, buddy?"

Spencer Reid just nodded. Gideon nodded and wheeled the drowsy boy to his room. He gently lifted Reid onto his bed and tucked him in, not surprised to find Reid asleep even before he turned the overhead lights off. He made sure to have the string planet lights on, and the night light, and the door open half way. Gideon then remembered the dinosaur and retrieved it from the ground, gently tucking it under the boy's chin. Reid didn't budge. He was out for the count.

"Take good care of him, guys." Jason Gideon said in a whisper to the two baby rats that were starting to explore their cage. Like real stars, the pair was nocturnal, coming to life at night. "You guys take care of Spencer."

The rats just stared, beady pink eyes dark in the gloom. Gideon smiled at Reid's new pets and left for his own bed, his own sleep. He would need it. Tomorrow would be another busy day.

* * *

Gideon awoke to the sound of his alarm clock. It was 12:30 in the morning. He got up with a tired groan, pushed his feet into his house slippers and went downstairs to move Reid. This was the first night since Spencer Reid had arrived that the boy had slept for a considerable period without waking up (and waking his guardian up) screaming or shouting. A good sign.

Gideon paused outside Reid's bedroom and listened. It was quiet. Carefully he eased the door open, cast a glance at the rats (one was spinning lazily on its' wheel- Castor, no doubt- the other was eating).

"Thanks, guys." Gideon murmured in the direction of the rodents and approached Reid's bed.

"Reid," Gideon said softly as he neared the bed, not wanting to startle the boy. "Reid."

There was nothing and then Reid's eyes fluttered open. Then Reid gave off a high-pitched little shriek and jolted upwards as far as his cast would allow. Exaggerated startle reflex.

"Easy buddy, it's me... Gideon."

"Gid-yun?" Reid asked groggily, relaxing back into his pillows. "What time is it?"

"Middle of the night, don't worry. You don't have to get up yet. I just have to turn you... because of your cast."

"Okay." Reid muttered tiredly. Jason Gideon carefully repositioned the boy and rearranged his shoulders and head on his pillow. He propped another pillow under the boy's casted legs.

"Comfy?" Gideon asked when he was done and was tugging the child's blanket back into place.

"Yeah."

"See you in the morning, pal."

But Reid had already fallen back to sleep.

* * *

Jason Gideon woke for the second time at 6:30 a.m. He reached over and slammed the alarm clock into silence. Reid would be up soon, if he wasn't already. Yawning, Gideon slumped out of bed and stumbled to his washroom. A nice warm shower, some breakfast and then... then the day would be off like a rocket.

In the shower, the hot water pelting his neck and back, Gideon thought back to the night before, to the appearance of Reid's chest and shoulders, disfigured and speckled with ugly burn scars. Scars that would always be there. They were hidden by Spencer's clothing, but some day, some day Reid would want them gone. Some day Reid would grow up and have girlfriends and he'd have to relive it all again, put up with the questions and the looks.

Gideon sighed and leaned his head back into the spray, washed the shampoo off his hair and grabbed the soap.

There was vitamin E and cocoa butter, but those were for mild scars, not burn scars. The only thing Jason Gideon knew of that could possibly remove those myriad scars was a skin graft, and even that would leave its' own scarring- the scarring would just be more uniform, less indicative of abuse and torture.

Gideon shut the water off and stepped out of the shower. He grabbed a towel and dried his hair quickly. Shaved, brushed his teeth, always half listening for Reid.

At 6:45 there was still no sound from Reid as Jason Gideon descended the stairs fully dressed. The profiler stopped by the boy's room, stuck his head around the corner and smiled. Reid was still asleep, small chest rising and falling peaceful, his plush dinosaur tucked neatly under one arm. The rats had apparently retired for the day.

Gideon shut the door and went to start breakfast.

* * *

"I want you to try and eat some eggs. And finish all of your cereal." Gideon said, surprised at how maternal he sounded.

"Why?" Reid asked unnecessarily. He knew perfectly well, why.

"Because after you see the dentist today we're going to fast, remember? For the... procedure tomorrow. So eat up."

"I don't like eggs," Reid stated bluntly, crinkling his nose and sticking the congealing mass with his fork. "They look like snot."

Jason Gideon stopped eating and gave his young charge a warning look. He slowly finished chewing the mass of scrambled eggs in his own mouth and swallowed noisily. He wasn't squeamish by nature, but he was trying to eat and, although he didn't want to admit it out loud, Reid did sort of have a point.

"Then don't eat your eggs. But eat all of your cereal. I'll get you a banana." Gideon said sternly, rising from the table to retrieve Spencer his fruit.

"I don't like bananas. They taste like..."

"I don't want to hear it." Gideon said firmly, cutting the boy off before Reid could say anything more. Reid sighed miserably.

"Okay, okay... we have bananas. We have oranges. We have apples. Pick one."

"Apple," Reid said immediately. Gideon nodded and went to retrieve the apple. He came back a few seconds later and placed the granny smith in front of the boy on his "bones of the human skeletal system" laminated place mat.

"Granny smith apple? You don't have any Macintoshes? Or Fugis? Or if you don't have Fugis, I'll take a Red Delicious."

"_Reiiiiiid_..." Gideon trailed, trying not to let his annoyance show. "I tell you what. You eat that apple and the rest of your cereal and from now on I'll include you in helping me make the grocery list. So we get food that you will eat. _Deal_?"

Reid bit into the apple, made a sour face and swallowed noisily. But he nodded.

"Yeah. And maybe we can pick up some Chinese gunpowder tea? I noticed you don't have any."

"Yeah, we'll put that on the list, okay? Is it a deal?"

"Deal," Reid said after a moment. He took another bite of his apple, made the same, stupid face and washed it back with some soggy Trix.

The kid was a definite epicure, alright.

* * *

The beeps coming from the backseat of the car were starting to wear on Jason Gideon's nerves. He didn't have the heart to tell Reid to turn off his "Simon" game. He knew the kid needed a distraction right now. Reid was so tense, it was coming off him in waves.

Gideon pulled into the dental clinic parking lot and shut off the engine. After a few seconds there was a loud buzzing noise, indicating that Reid had messed up on his "memory" game.

"We're here?" Reid squeaked from the back seat worriedly.

"Yeah. It won't be that bad, okay? An hour or less. We have discussed it. And tomorrow will be okay, too." It was hard to keep the pity he felt for the child out of his voice.

"Yeah. Okay. Okay, Gid-yun."

"Come on, pal." Gideon said sanguinely and popped the trunk for Reid's wheelchair.

* * *

Reid was very, very pale waiting in the waiting room. He held onto his "Simon" game as if it was a shield and his shades were on. Gideon noticed- to his dismay- that Reid's small hands were trembling slightly.

"It'll be okay. Promise." Gideon said quietly and put a reassuring hand on Spencer Reid's narrow, hunched shoulder. Reid flinched a bit but nodded. He exhaled loudly.

"I should have, maybe, brought a book, you think?" The boy said after a moment. His breathing was becoming faster and Jason Gideon sincerely hoped this wasn't the beginning of an anxiety attack. Distract the kid. Stay light. Stay calm. Upbeat.

"I don't think the wait will be too much longer, pal."

As if on cue, the receptionist called: "Spencer? Agent Gideon? Dr. Jane will see you now." She smiled warmly at Reid and Reid attempted to smile back, but it was a very poor excuse for an actual Reid-grin.

"His name is Jane?" Reid said a bit too loudly and chuckled.

"I think that's his last name, _Reid_." Gideon said pointedly and gave Reid a small smile back.

The dentist was a ruddy-faced man in his fifties with large spectacles and even larger eyes which swum behind the coke-bottle lenses, giving him a somewhat bemused expression. He smiled warmly at Reid, though and Reid smiled back.

"My name is Dr. Jane, but you can call me George if you like. I already know you're Spencer." The dentist approached the boy, knelt down and offered his hand for a shake. Reid took it shyly.

"So I hear you're missing a few of your chompers?" George said warmly, winking at Gideon. Reid stared and then cast Gideon a doubtful look. _Chompers?_

"Uh... yes. Some of my teeth... are gone."

"That's got to be bothersome. I am sure you have lots of questions, but I was thinking, first, I show you the office and the room where we'll be putting in your implants. That okay with you?"

"Uh...sure."

"Okay, let's go." Obviously Dr. George Jane was trying very hard to make one ten year old Spencer Reid feel in control. Gideon pushed Reid down a corridor and into a brightly coloured room. There was a dentists' chair in the middle of the room, and a sink along one wall with cabinets overhead. A metal tray with dental tools. A portable x-ray machine. Canisters of gas (laughing gas, probably, Gideon thought). The wall itself was painted with murals of trees and waterfalls and a magnificent sky full of clouds. In the corner of the room, anchored to the wall, was a television on mute.

"Pretty cool office, huh?" George said brightly, but Reid was even paler, and fidgeting, and nothing had even happened yet.

"Yeah," Reid said tightly. His voice was high pitched and he was breathing shallowly and quickly. Gideon shot him a reassuring look and Reid smiled back, but it was obvious he was very, very anxious.

'So this is where we will do the operation to put new teeth in. You'll lie there..." Dr Jane pointed to the dentist's chair. "That big overhead light will help us see inside your mouth, and we'll give you medicine before we do anything so it won't hurt and you'll be sleeping. Sound okay?"

"Yeah," Reid mumbled, but he was plucking at the collar of his shirt, now, as if it was choking him.

"Would you like a glass of water, Reid?" Gideon asked quietly, shooting the dentist a look and Reid nodded tightly.

"No problem." George Jane said brightly and went and retrieved a wax paper Dixie cup from a holder on the wall. He filled it with tap water and returned to Reid. Reid took the proffered drink and took small, fast sips. Gideon was fairly certain the boy's eyes were closed under the shades.

"I know this all seems pretty scary, doesn't it?" The dentist asked Reid then, and Reid, obviously shaken and starting to visibly sweat, nodded.

"You know, it will be over before you know it. And you'll feel better too. Your Dad, he'll be here the whole time, too."

Reid didn't bother correcting the man, telling him that Gideon wasn't his father. It was a pretty clear sign of just how shaken the boy was.

"Do you have any questions?"

Reid was silent. George Jane shot Gideon a look and Gideon shook his head in a "Don't pressure him" way. Gideon squeezed Reid's shoulder instead and kneeled down.

"You're doing really great, Spencer." Gideon said kindly, intentionally using the boy's first name. It had seemed to help calm Reid down before, when he was highly stressed.

"_Yeah_," Reid said breathlessly, almost in a whine. He seemed near tears.

"We can phone you with any questions later, can't we?" Gideon asked from Reid's side.

"Of course. That's no problem. And I will give you my home number before you leave today in case you think of anything after the office closes."

Gideon nodded his thanks.

"I know you wanted to look at Reid's..."

"It's a fairly...simple procedure. We can take X-rays tomorrow when he is...calmer." The dentist said, shooting Gideon a look that clearly meant they would take x-rays after Reid was sedated. Gideon nodded.

"So, that's about it, right?" Gideon said. Reid's breathing was becoming hitched.

"Yeah... unless Spencer has any questions?"

"I think we'll phone with any," Gideon said immediately, squeezing Reid's shoulder again. "Right, buddy?"

Reid nodded but said nothing. The boy was terribly pale. The profiler picked up one of the boy's stiff, claw-like hands and held it gently, concerned by how clammy and cold it was.

"Okay...well...we'll see you tomorrow, Spencer. Okay?"

Gideon nodded that they'd see him. He knew Reid probably couldn't speak. He had expected Reid to be withdrawn, even highly anxious, but the kid was on the verge of either crying or a full blown panic attack.

"Okay, thank you, Dr. Jane. See you tomorrow."

"Okay, bye. Bye Spencer."

Gideon quickly wheeled Reid out of the room, talking calmly about how nice the facilities were, how nice Dr. Jane was, how cool the television in the room was. Reid didn't respond, just continued to breathe heavily.

They took the elevator down and Gideon wheeled Reid over to the car and parked his wheelchair in front of the passenger door. He bent down then and hugged the boy tightly. Reid's shirt was soaked with sweat and he was shaking even harder than Gideon had thought. There was a slight whining noise then, and Spencer Reid burst into tears just as Gideon had predicted, sobbing miserably into his foster father's shirt. Gideon held the child and shushed him, told him how brave he was, how everything was okay, how everything was getting better.

_Shit._

* * *

**That's it for now. Please review. Thanks. Lexikal**


	19. Chapter 19: Ativan

**Title:** Losing My Religion by Lexikal (Chapter Nineteen)  
**Rating:** M for graphic violence against a child and language (in the first chapter, chapter 8 and chapter 10 so far)  
**Fandom:** Criminal Minds  
**Summary:** After two years away from his father and his father's violent rages, Spencer Reid, now ten, is returned home. Spencer has changed... but has William Reid?

**Author's Note:** I never intended to abandon any of my stories. Life got busy, busy, busy. I am hoping that I can finish them, but I am not in the same head-space I was when I started them and I haven't watched CM in forever. I hate leaving things undone, so I will try and finish them, bit by bit.

**Chapter Note:** My keyboard occasionally sticks. I will quickly edit for typos, etc, but there may be some. I want to get these done, so there shouldn't be hoards of typos and mistakes, but there may be a few more than usual. Please keep reading and ignore. Thanks. Also, I have had dental surgery before but I am not a dental professional. The "dentist" Reid will be seeing is a dental surgeon, and yes, general anesthesia is sometimes used.

* * *

It was just after noon and Reid was lying on the couch. He hadn't eaten anything because his fast had begun and Gideon, to support him, had skipped his own lunch as well. He planned to eat when the kid was napping, which, by the looks of it, would be soon. Reid wasn't as pale, but he had cried on and off since the parking lot break-down some two hours earlier. He was apparently cried out. He'd had his pain meds at lunch with water, and without food to buffer the medication, seemed even drowsier than normal.

"So tomorrow, then. I am hungry." Reid's voice was slurred. He'd taken his shades off and Gideon had dimmed the light in the living room. A children's program was on the television, something for preschoolers. Gideon had turned cartoons on, hoping something inane might soothe Reid and the child hadn't protested, which was unusual in itself. Gideon had then got the boy his dinosaur. Reid had wanted to play with the rats but by the time he'd calmed down he was so groggy that Gideon had suggested they stay in their cage for the time being. Reid had just nodded, usual tenacity slipping away as exhaustion and pain meds sapped the last of his resolve.

"I am sort of hungry," Reid slurred again from the couch. His plush dinosaur was resting on his stomach, his casted leg propped up with pillows.

"Sorry pal. No food." Reid was allowed small amounts of clear liquids only. He had a can of 7-UP on a folding table within reach.

"Don't like fasting." Reid said petulantly and took a sip from the can's bendy straw. Gideon stared at him as his eyes drifted shut. The bruises on his face were now mostly banana-yellow but his head was still mostly bald, except for peach fuzz, and he was scarred and scared and a wreck. Lying there immobile in his cast with the remote control in one hand and his dinosaur in the other, Jason Gideon felt a swell of pride for Spencer Reid.

"Sleep well, little boy." Gideon whispered. The phone rang then and Gideon snatched up the cordless and punched it on.

"Hello?"

"Agent Gideon, this is Dr. George Jane."

"Yes, hello," Gideon said.

"I am phoning, obviously, about Spencer. He seemed really upset, as I am sure you noticed. How is he now?"

Gideon silently smiled, glad that, for once, the universe was on Spencer's side. The dentist they had managed to obtain for the procedure had told Gideon that he had "experience" dealing with abused children before, but Gideon was so glad the man was not only technically adept but emotionally, as well.

"He's sleeping right now. Pain meds."

"Ah," the dentist said knowingly. "He seemed like he was experiencing a panic attack earlier."

"It's possible." Gideon said, not wanting to say that when Reid panicked, it was usually a great deal more intense than anything that had happened in George Jane's office. Unfortunately.

"Considering his level of fear, I would like to quickly discuss with you some of my recommendations for the surgery tomorrow. I managed to obtain some dental records from his old residence as well as some x-rays performed when he was unconscious in the hospital."

Gideon nodded and waited for the man to continue.

"Spencer is missing 5 teeth, as you probably know, so the procedure won't be as fast as I had initially hoped. I am thinking that general anesthesia might be prudent in this case."

"Okay," Gideon said slowly. Reid seemed less worried about the anesthesia and more concerned about being alone.

"And of course, as we discussed previously, you will be in the room. The procedure can be completed in the room Spencer saw today. However, just coming in is probably going to be traumatic, as well as the IV insertion, all of it. I have written a prescription for sublingual ativan that you can give to Spencer an hour or so before arrival. Hopefully that will help make the entire experience less frightening for him."

Gideon sighed a breath of relief. He had been so focused on being there for Reid and answering Reid's questions, he hadn't been thinking strategically and the very idea of asking for a sedative for the kid hadn't even occurred to him.

"That...I think that's an excellent idea." Gideon said, feeling a swell of relief. He'd been worried about Reid, of course, and the child's reaction. Anything that could make what was coming less scary would be a huge bonus for everyone involved.

"I can phone the prescription in to the pharmacy of your choice," George Jane said earnestly, obviously having put more than a little thought into the situation.

Gideon glanced over at his young charge. He didn't want to wake him but he couldn't leave him alone. It was almost 1, which still gave him plenty of time to get to the pharmacy and pick up the script. Still, if Reid could sleep...

"Is it possible if someone else picks up the prescription? I have a friend that might be free and I don't want to wake Reid up right now." Gideon said quietly, thankful for the tiny amount of peace Reid seemed to be in right now.

There was a pause for a moment, and Gideon could almost see the dentist, eyes swimming ponderously behind his huge lenses.

"I'll tell you what. I get out of here at around 5. I could grab the prescription on my way home and drop it off at your place."

Gideon blinked in wonderment.

"I...I would _really _appreciate that." The profiler finally said slowly. "If you're sure it wouldn't be any trouble."

"You only live about 20 minutes away. Tonight it's probably best to keep Spencer as calm as possible, so all things considered, this is probably the best course of action."

Gideon smiled. Something about the way the man spoke and emoted reminded him of the kids in 40 years or so. Less intelligent, of course, but similar personality style.

"Thank you. I should be expecting you at around...?"

"I should be there around 6:00, traffic permitting. Also, if Spencer has any security items, like a stuffed animal or the like, he is welcome to bring them in tomorrow for the procedure."

Oh yes, this man was a lot like Reid.

"Okay. Thank you. I will see you then."

"Okay," George Jane said simply. "Oh- before I forget. Please bring Spencer's medications with you tomorrow."

"Of course. Thanks again."

Gideon disconnected and went back to check on the boy. The procedure tomorrow would not be the highlight of Spencer's young life, but quite possibly, it was looking to be a great deal less traumatic than Gideon had first anticipated.

* * *

"What time is it?" Reid's voice was clogged with sleep. Jason Gideon had nuked a microwave meal for himself and had wolfed it down, feeling almost guilty for not fasting with the kid. But he would need his energy and his strength for this ordeal.

"Just after two. Feeling better?"

Reid groaned and propped himself up on his elbows, wrinkled his nose.

"That dentist probably thinks I'm a headcase," Reid said simply, but his cheeks were slightly redder than usual. "He probably thinks I'm psycho."

"Reid, there is nothing psycho about you. You know that as well as I do. You are smart. You know how trauma affects people, including kids."

It would be disrespectful, Gideon felt, to talk down to the boy. Not only because he was a veritable genius, but because he had lived through things most adults couldn't even fathom. He deserved respect and acknowledgment, not pity.

"Yeah. It just feels weird being one of the case studies you read about." Reid finally submitted. He took a lazy sip from his 7-Up can and rattled it to indicate it was empty.

"I heard you talking on the phone earlier," The kid said, eyes averted, when Gideon just looked at him compassionately. "Was it David?"

Gideon sighed and walked into the living room and sat down in the arm chair, across from the boy.

"It was Dr. Jane, actually. Just discussing tomorrow."

"Does he think I'm... weird?"

"Define weird."

Reid shot him a look.

"No, Reid, he doesn't," Gideon said honestly.

"What... what were you two discussing?"

"He thinks that if you take some medication to relax, this experience might be less scary for you. I agree with him."

"What medication?" Reid's eyes had narrowed to suspicious slits. Gideon blinked and filed the response away for later consideration.

"Ativan. That's a..."

"It's a benzodiazepine. They are highly addictive. I am not sure I consent."

Gideon bit down on the side of his cheek, tried to keep his face straight and serious, but Reid sounded so funny sometimes, so confident and precocious that it took the man by surprise. Jason Gideon also knew the kid was scared shitless right now, probably about everything to some extent and the profiler had noticed on more than one occasion that Reid tended to act stubbornly when he was scared, waiting for Gideon to respond with reassurances and additional information.

"A few ativan won't be enough for you to become addicted. And today... you only saw the place. Tomorrow they will have to put an IV line in and you will have to sit in the chair and if you panic, it will be a lot harder to..."

The boy had his eyes closed and nodded as if it hurt. "_Yeah_," He said breathlessly. "Yeah. I know you're right." When he looked back at his foster father his eyes were both glazed and shining. "I just... I hate all of this. So, so much."

Gideon didn't speak. What was there to say? He nodded and smiled, a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. He hated all of this too.

Reid rubbed at his eyes and exhaled loudly. His eyes were closed, a thin line forming between his eyebrows. "I'm... _scared_ Jason."

Jason Gideon nodded again. He knew that, too.

* * *

Reid was sprawled on the couch, staring dazedly at the television. Some History Channel program was on, that, from the expression on the boy's face, was immensely boring.

The door bell rang and the kid blinked as if coming out of a long trance and glanced in the direction of the door. Gideon put down his paperback on the coffee table and shot Reid a reassuring smile. He rubbed a hand through his hair as he approached the door.

George Jane was standing on the front porch.

"Dr. Jane. Hello. Thank you again for going out of your way for..."

The man made a dismissive gesture with one hand. "No trouble at all. How is he?"

"Scared." Gideon admitted. The dental surgeon nodded understandingly. "Would you like to come in?"

"Does Spencer have any questions?"

"Spencer always has questions. But nothing specific that I know of at the moment."

"In that case, I'll have to decline. Have some journal articles to read through tonight, and I wanted to re-read some stuff I have on pediatric anxiety disorders."

"Okay then. Thank you again."

"It...no trouble at all." The man looked flustered, as if he was unused to taking a compliment for good deeds.

"We'll see you tomorrow then."

"Yes. Yes... good night." George Jane blinked behind his huge coke bottle glasses (the effect was that his eyes looked comically large and cartoonish and with his large balding head and relatively slender frame he looked vaguely like a benevolent extra-terrestrial) and handed the small white paper bag of meds to the agent. He walked slowly back to his car, lifted one nimble hand in a short wave, and clicked the door open. Gideon waved back and shut the door, waiting for the barrage of questions.

First, some coffee. He was pouring himself a very large, very strong black coffee when Reid called out.

"Gid-yunnn?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you have a physician's desk reference?"

Jason Gideon smiled, left the pills on the kitchen counter and walked back to the kid.

"No."

"Oh." The boy looked mildly annoyed. "What is the name and dosage of the drugs I will be given tomorrow?"

"Reid, I don't know." It was a struggle not to sigh.

"What if there is a drug interaction? What if..."

"I am sure everything will be fine, kiddo."

"But what if everything is not fine and I have a reaction? Or what if there are complications while I am under and... do you know how many people per year die while under local anesthesia?"

Jason Gideon took a long sip of coffee and decided to treat that last inquiry as rhetoric.

"Reid you will be fine. I promise."

"That's a nice sentiment. But you can't promise that." Reid turned back to his television program, skinny arms wrapped protectively around his middle as if he were cold. Jason Gideon studied him as he chewed his lower lip and stared at the flickering light of the TV screen; small, pale face pinched and tight.

* * *

The kid washed himself with Gideon standing guard at the door in case he needed assistance. He was dead quiet and methodical, scrubbing at his healing flesh until it was red. Gideon kept his mouth shut and turned when Reid shot him a look that said he needed his privacy. He could feel the boy's anxiety and confusion and was at a loss for words himself. Some things had no easy answer.

"Gid-yun?"

"Yeah?"

"Um...I...I am done." That was Reid's cue to his foster father that he needed help getting dressed. Gideon approached the boy slowly and lifted him gently so Reid could pull his sweats up. He handed the boy a t-shirt and stood, waiting, as he slipped it on over his head. Reid wheeled himself out of the room slowly and back to the living room. Gideon went into the kitchen and came back with the ativan and Reid's evening pain meds. It was only 8:00 but they would have to get up early and if Reid woke again the screaming meemies they wouldn't have much time to sleep.

Spencer Reid eyed the bottles of prescription meds and held out his hand or his evening pain meds without comment. He took a sip of water and threw back his head to swallow noisily.

"I'm not sure about the ativan." He said, staring at the small, white pills. "I'm not anxious right now."

"You're pretty anxious."

"I just can't see why I can't take...maybe...one tomorrow. Or none."

"Okay...what's up?" Gideon said finally. "Why are you dodging this so much."

Reid chewed his lower lip and stared at his lap. He shrugged.

"_Spencer_..."

"Have _you_ ever taken it?"

Gideon was silent a moment. Finally he nodded out of reflex. Reid was still staring at his sweat pants.

"Me? Yes."

"Why?" The ubiquitous why.

"Um...after a case I was working on. I had some trouble for a while."

"What kind of trouble?" Reid still had his eyes averted.

"Panic attacks." Gideon said simply and sighed. Reid glanced up in wonderment.

"_You_ got panic attacks?" The tone of the kid's voice was utterly incredulous.

"Yeah. It was a pretty...tough case."

"What...were you attacked?"

"No. I wasn't attacked, Reid."

"Why..."

"Reid, I'd really like you to take these tonight." Gideon said abruptly, tired of the back and forth exchange. The profiler was dead tired and wanted sleep. He wanted Reid to sleep.

But Reid immediately went tense, his eyes widened slightly his fingers reflexively curled slightly in his lap. Gideon sighed again, exhausted and tired and sorry and upset with himself for the slip. With Reid, every sigh and breath and facial twitch was a potential threat, a signal to be analyzed by his genius, hypervigilant brain.

"Reid, buddy..."

"You're mad." The child said resolutely, still taut and uneasy in his chair.

"I'm not mad. Not at all. Just tired."

"I...what if..."

Gideon wanted to tell the boy to spit it out. Knew that his own anxiety and fear for Spencer was making him irritable. He took a calming breath. Waited.

"What...does ativan make you do things you don't remember?"

Jason Gideon blinked.

"Reid?"

"With some medications people... they say things they wouldn't usually say. Is it like being drunk? Because people can become disinhibited when they are drunk and..." Reid trailed off, leaving the sentence incomplete and ominous.

Gideon replayed the last comment over in his mind, wondering about the implications.

"No. It's not like being drunk. It just relaxes you. So you're not as afraid." He wanted to ask the boy if he'd ever been drunk, wanted to dig deeper, but right now was definitely not the time.

"I...um..." but he held out his hand. It was trembling slightly. He stared at the small white dots intently. Finally nodded, as if agreeing to some unspoken assurance. "_Okay_." The last word was a heavy whisper. Reid popped the pills under his tongue and clamped his mouth shut, eyes wandering to meet Gideon's gaze. Gideon nodded his approval, kept himself from saying "Good boy," or something else equally condescending. He guessed that that one, seemingly small act of trust had taken the child a lot of courage. After a few moments Reid worked his tongue around his mouth and said: "Those taste kind of sweet."

"Yeah. You want to watch some TV? Or read? I could read you something."

"I think maybe I will just go to bed," Reid said, and it didn't take a genius to figure out the boy was afraid of what the medication would do to him. Wanted to be alone in case the effects weren't as benign as his guardian had assured.

"Okay. Want me to tuck you in?" Gideon kept his voice light and oblivious.

"No. Um... no thank you."

"I'm going to be up for a while in here reading if you can't sleep and want to come hang out."

"Okay."

And then Reid was gone and Gideon heard the kid in his room, heard the electronic cacophony of his Simon game and the occasional mumbled, indecipherable comment through the door. All he'd asked the boy to do was take a sedative but suddenly Jason Gideon felt strangely ashamed. As if he'd overstepped a boundary.

_Don't be stupid, Jason. He is afraid of everything, but you didn't make him afraid. _

Still, the sadness nagged at him like a relatively mild but persistent tooth ache. Around 10 he gently cracked Spencer's door open and looked in. The boy was curled up on top of his duvet, a pile of his toys cluttered around him, a small wet spot of drool collecting on the pillow.

* * *

**That's it for now. Please review. Sorry again for the huge delay in updates. I only saw a few episodes of season 5 and have seen none of season 6. I watched the season 7 premiere and was disappointed. CM just isn't the same show it used to be. **


	20. Chapter 20: Insomnia, dreams and rats

**Title:** Losing My Religion by Lexikal (Chapter Twenty)  
**Rating:** M for graphic violence against a child and language (in the first chapter, chapter 8 and chapter 10 so far)  
**Fandom:** Criminal Minds  
**Summary:** After two years away from his father and his father's violent rages, Spencer Reid, now ten, is returned home. Spencer has changed... but has William Reid?

**Author's Note:** Okay, here is chapter 20. As for my other stories , I do plan to eventually get back to them. I started writing huge multi-fic chapters quite a while ago and the stories took on a life of their own. So I think, if there is any chance of completing them, I have to tackle these beasts one at a time. I do plan to finish "The Blue Boy" and "This is my last resort" after this. Also I stopped watching CM around the end of season 4. The show just started to slowly bore me. I am an old school CM fan. I haven't seen any of season 6 and only a few eps from season 5 and I did manage to catch the season premiere for season 7 but it no longer resembled the show I first fell in love with. I loved gruff Hotch and Gideon (of course) and Reid when he was oblivious and nerdy but cute. The Reid I saw at in the season 7 premiere had lost the awkward, asperger-y edge which made him so adorable and the new haircut was way too hipster. Just... yeah. So if these characters seem OOC it's because they are based on my impressions of early Reid (seasons 3 and earlier) and Gideon. If you're new to the show and only started watching recently or haven't watched the earlier seasons recently, you might want to give them a try to see where I was coming from with the characters. And yes, this is a bit AU (although not totally, because it could have possibly happened in the fandom's universe). Enough rambling.

**Chapter Note:** My keyboard occasionally sticks. I will quickly edit for typos, etc, but there may be some. Taking some liberties with this upcoming dental surgery scene and from what I remember from various minor surgeries. I am not a dental surgeon or dental professional and I'll try to keep this semi-realistic but if it's not air-tight, please remember it is fan fiction so I have taken some creative detours. Perhaps. We'll see. Also, while I do want to finish all my stories, including this one, the muse that inspired me to begin this so many months ago is not harping at me quite so vehemently these days. Anyway. On with the show. And please remember to write a quick review if you like this. Thanks.

* * *

The house was dead still, too still, too quiet. His heart was hammering loud and the sounds were far away and tinny. Over the father's bed was a spray of blood. Arterial drips on the bed post and pillows. The mother was splayed awkwardly and brokenly over the toilet, her pale, unmoving head bobbing in the bowl of blue, sterile water. The child had been found in the basement in the washing machine in pieces, arms and legs bloodless and spun dry. The boy's head had been in the dryer with a dryer sheet, smears of congealed brown and hair in the lint trap, eyes milky and rain storm fresh.

He was falling and choking and the vomit was hot and steaming and his S.A.C. was calling JASON! loud and like steel and... and then there was screaming, high pitched and the visceral rumble of a chainsaw stuttering to life. Gideon jerked awake and blinked heavily into the darkness panting and wiping at his sweat-slick body. His heart was still hammering from the dream and the screams... wait..._Spencer_?

The screams were still going on and Gideon felt his stomach drop again. The bedside clock said it was nearly 6:00 in the morning. He had slept through his nocturnal check of Spencer and... but the screams were wrong. Too high and crisp and... they were a woman's screams._ And... was that the sound of a chainsaw?_

Gideon swore mildly and rubbed the sleep junk from his eyes and oozed out of bed. The television was still booming from downstairs, so obviously Reid was up already. He quickly wriggled into a t-shirt and took the stairs two at a time.

"Reid!"

Reid's head shot up and young, blood shot eyes blinked lazily in the gloom.

"Oh. Hi, Gid-yun. Good morning." Reid turned back to the television.

"Do you think you could turn that down?" Gideon pitched mildly, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice.

"Huh?" Reid's eyes only left the screen for a second before travelling back to the virtual gore. Some woman was running in her underwear out of a house and some hideous maniac with what looked like a mask made out of patches of stitched leather was running after her, swinging a chainsaw through the air dramatically. Gideon snatched the remote control from the easy chair and muted the television. Reid looked back at his foster father with an expression that could only be described as petulant.

"Too loud?" The young genius inquired innocently. Gideon nodded and sighed.

"What are you doing up? And...what is this?"

"The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Apparently the main antagonist, Leatherface, was inspired by the acts of Edward Gein and..."

"And why are you watching it at 5:45 in the morning?"

"Well, in Psycho, Norman Bates' character was apparently also modelled after Gein. But I found Bates' character to be quite different than Gein. I thought maybe this would be more historically accurate and so I was..."

Jason Gideon turned the television off.

"That's not an answer. Reid." Between the dream- _nightmare_- and the worry over Reid and the fatigue and all of it, being woken by the idiotic noise of an actress screaming for a cheesy horror movie had turned the agent's mood foul. And Reid, who had previously been oblivious when consumed with the movie, was now noticing the mood and shifting uncomfortably.

"I'm sorry. I didn't think it was that loud" Reid said sheepishly.

"What were you saying about 'Psycho'?" Gideon said, calming down a little. The dream wasn't the kid's fault. Hell, none of this was the kid's fault and...

"Well, that was on before this but 'Star Trek: The Next Generation' was scheduled. But then after 'Psycho' the channel host mentioned that 'The Texas Chainsaw Massacre' would be playing instead and I remembered reading in a psychology journal about this movie so I decided to..."

"Wait." Gideon stopped the boy, holding up a hand. "How long have you been awake?"

Reid did some quick calculations in his head. "Maybe... 22 hours or so?"

"You didn't go to sleep last night? Not at all?"

_Damn it. _

"I wasn't sleepy." Reid said simply.

"_Reid_..."

"It's okay, Gid-yun. I'll be getting lots of sleep today, right?" the voice was artificially chipper. Gideon mentally kicked himself. He had been so exhausted himself that he had assumed Reid would sleep like the dead with a sedative. Obviously he had underestimated the kid's anxiety.

"Reid, you know, you should have got me if you couldn't sleep. We could've talked or-"

"It's okay," the boy said, cutting Gideon off. "I just wasn't tired. No harm, no foul." Again with the light, chipper tone.

Yeah. Sure.

Gideon decided to let it pass. This time.

"You're sweaty." Reid said bluntly, staring at his foster father. Gideon nodded.

"I- I am going to go get a shower. You... here..." Gideon turned the television back on with a jerk of the remote. He quickly muted it and flipped through some channels until he hit what looked like a documentary about Piranhas. "From now on cartoons, documentaries or Star Trek. Nothing rated R, no horror movies and..."

"_But_..."

"Not open for discussion right now," Gideon said wearily and ran a hand over his face, wiping away the last remnants of the dream. "Right now you can watch this or the kids' network. What's it going to be?"

Reid rolled his eyes and Jason Gideon had to do a double take.

"This." Reid said finally, testily, waving his hand dismissively at the underwater footage of carnivorous fish. The kid was in a bad mood, tired, scared and from the way he was fidgeting...

"Do you need your pain meds?"

Reid shrugged, as if he was indifferent but his glazed eyes said it all.

"Wait here," Gideon ordered and jogged to the kitchen. Damn it. The guilt was already chewing at him. He had wanted so much to believe that Spencer would sleep, that they would be fine that the idea that the kid might simply be unable to sleep hadn't even occurred to him. Gideon toppled two of Reid's pain pills into his hand, grabbed a can of 7-up from the fridge and returned to the boy.

"Not too much," Gideon said when he handed the 7-up to Reid. Reid nodded tiredly and turning back to the television show with an annoyed huff.

"Okay." Now it was Jason Gideon's turn to sound overly enthusiastic. "Have fun, pal." He turned and started back up the stairs. Shower, then coffee and a quick breakfast, then a talk with Reid to settle both their nerves and establish house rules regarding nocturnal television viewing, then Reid would brush his teeth and get changed and do Reid-ish things for a few hours until it was time to leave. As Gideon was mentally checking off his day's obligations, he could swear he heard the sound of a chainsaw from the floor below. Just about the time he started the shower. And just for a second or two. Gideon sighed and squeezed a glob of pert plus into his hand and began to scrub at his hair with the fervor of a man haunted by the past and disarmed by the present. If only cleaning one's mind could be so easy.

* * *

Reid had vehemently denied turning the horror movie back on and Gideon let it drop. Then Reid had "showered" by himself and dressed himself and played with his toys and pulled out the rats while Gideon said "Yes, they are cute," and "Yes, I do think they know you are their master," every time Reid asked. Already Pollux was starting to look a bit overweight and Castor had slimmed down.

Gideon was having his third cup of coffee when Reid screamed loudly.

"What?" Gideon breathed, hurrying into the living room.

"I dropped Castor and he ran behind the television!" Reid whined. Gideon sighed and swore under his breath. At least Castor had only been dropped from a few feet and onto a rug.

"Reid, give me the other one..."

"His name is Pollux," Reid said pointedly.

"Okay, give me Pollux," Gideon rephrased. Reid held out the small rodent and Gideon gently scooped him up and walked him slowly back to his cage in the boy's room.

"Castor just ran under the sofa!" Reid yelled as Gideon checked the latch on the door to make sure the rat was contained and returned to the living room. An embryonic tension headache was growing nicely between the agent's ears.

"Okay. Maybe...Reid? Stop yelling, okay? I can hear you just fine."

"But if you don't know where he is, you might step on him!" Reid shot back in the same shrill, impatient tone.

Gideon sighed and crouched down, peering under the sofa. The rat was just chilling, staring from the depths with beady pink eyes. Gideon reached in and the little bugger took off and Reid was yelling about him rushing down the hall and...

Gideon caught the animal in the kitchen a bit too roughly and was rewarded with a surprised, angry squeak. He returned Speedy Gonzales to his cage and went back to the dining room to collect his coffee.

"You got him?" Reid asked worriedly as Gideon sat down and nodded with a huff.

"From now on we play with the rats in the bathroom where there is nowhere they can run. And one at a time only. Okay?"

"Yeah. Until they are socialized a bit better and know not to behave like that."

Gideon didn't feel like getting into an argument so he let that slide. Reid watched him sit and drink his coffee. The boy opened his mouth and promptly shut it and Gideon already knew that Reid wanted coffee. And was hungry and scared and tired. Gideon drained the last dregs from the cup, very much aware that Reid was watching him with puppy dog eyes, and returned the dirty cup to the kitchen sink. It was almost 8 and they would have to be on their way in less than half an hour. And a half an hour when dealing with Spencer Reid felt like more like half a minute. Gideon pulled the ativan out of the cupboard where Reid's pain meds were stored and returned to the living room. The kid had the remote control truck out and was busy ramming it into the skirting on the walls over and over.

"Reid," Gideon said gently, holding out the small white pills. "We got to get ready to go. Here are your pills, pal."

Reid glanced over at Gideon and then back at the motorized truck. The truck spun backwards wildly and turned, barrelling out under the coffee table with a low whine.

"Five more minutes," Reid said, sounding so much like a typical ten year old that Gideon actually smiled.

"You can play with your toy for five more minutes after you take these pills. Okay?"

"Don't need them," Reid said absently, eyes never leaving the truck's path of destruction. The toy careened into the book case and flipped over, wheels spinning uselessly as Reid tried to tip it back over.

"It's too top heavy for that" Gideon said unnecessarily. "Here are your pills."

"Don't need them..." Reid said again, glancing over at the benzos as if Gideon was asking him to drink the special Kool-Aid.

"Reid, this is the same stuff you took last night and..." Wait. Gideon knew that look. Reid looked sheepish.

"You did take some last night, right?"

"Well..."

"Reid..." Gideon groaned. That explained a lot. Like why the boy hadn't had a wink of sleep. So- he'd cheeked the sublinguals? And then, what? Spit them out?

"Reid, remember yesterday? You do need these." For a second the profiler almost blurted out that he would take some too so Reid could see there was nothing to be afraid of but caught himself just in time.

"Gid-yun...please..."

"Buddy, it's not a big deal. It will just help you be less afraid. Panic doesn't feel very good, does it?"

Reid was wiping at his eyes. He looked so forlorn and small and scared that it took every ounce of resolve in Gideon's body not to get up and hug the kid. He wanted to, but all of Reid's body language and facial expressions suggested he needed his space.

"I've taken these before. Really, kiddo, I wouldn't ask you to take something if I thought there was any chance it might harm you in any way or make you feel worse."

Reid nodded miserably and held out his hand. He looked defeated. Gideon almost felt guilty handing the kid the pills, like a drug pusher or something but of course it was stupid to feel like that he knew it and yet... Reid popped the pills under his tongue under his foster father's watchful gaze. Finally took a tiny sip of 7-up and made a face.

"You really did take them this time, didn't you?" Gideon asked gently. 3 mg of ativan would probably turn Reid into a tiny zombie, but at least the chance for a full out freak-out attack had just been dramatically reduced.

"Can I have my glasses. And my dinosaur?" Reid finally croaked by way of an answer. Gideon nodded and went to the kid's room to retrieve the objects. Castor was hanging off the bars and eyeing the agent balefully.

"What do you want, you little shit?" Gideon spat tiredly in the direction of the cage. The baby rat continued to stare and Gideon was uneasily reminded of the white-haired alien kids from Village of the Damned.

There was a scuffle and another white, furry head popped up. Pollux. Now two pairs of small rodent eyes were looking at him accusingly.

"Look, he had to take them. You have never seen that kid freak out. I have. So don't look at me like that." Gideon sighed and shut his eyes. What the hell was he doing? Explaining his actions to Reid's pet rats? They both were going to need a long period of down time after today.

The rats continued to stare until, suddenly, one of them...was it Castor?...ambled off to spin lazily on the wheel.

Gideon returned to Reid's side and handed the boy his shades which Reid had on in what seemed like a microsecond. Next came the dinosaur, which Reid pulled to his chest protectively. Gideon glanced at the clock. Already 8:10. Time to go.

* * *

He could tell when the ativan started to hit. Reid was buckled securely in the back seat and his shoulders, which had been tense and stiff, began to droop. His hands relaxed and the 'Simon' game he had been playing with began to buzz more and more often to indicate that Reid had messed up the sequence. They drove in relative silence, too, with Reid too tired or dazed to say much and Gideon making mindless chit chat and light conversation. What a nice day it was. Maybe it would rain later. Maybe in a few days they could go get that Nintendo so Reid would have something to do besides watch TV. The kid was still too drowsy from pain meds most of the time to be able to focus on reading but the anxiety in him still needed to be quashed.

And then they were at the clinic with 10 minutes to spare.

Gideon pulled into the parking lot and killed the engine. He turned around in his seat and sized up the boy.

"Reid, we're here, pal."

Reid lazily lifted his head to look out the window. "Oh. Yeah." His voice was thick with fatigue and medication.

"Remember what we talked about? Everything is going to be okay. I am going to stay with you the whole time and after this you don't have to worry about your missing teeth. It'll be quick and I will be with you." Was he talking to reassure Reid or himself?

"Yes." But what Reid actually said was "yesh". Between the relatively high dose of ativan and the pain meds, the kid was out to lunch. Which, considering where they were and what was about to go down, was probably a good thing.

Gideon smiled brightly at the kid- his kid- and got out of the car. He wheeled the chair around to Reid and helped the boy scoot into it.

"How about we leave your glasses here? So they don't get damaged or lost?"

"Okay..." Reid said easily, head lolling with fatigue. Gideon gently removed the shades and chucked them in the backseat.

Reid's eye lids were at half-mast, the pupils huge. He kept blinking in a desperate attempt to stay awake. Even though it was still July, he was wearing a hoody over his usual tee. Gideon suspected it doubled as a security blanket, and if Reid felt he needed it, he needed it. Besides, the clinic was air conditioned.

"My dinosaur..." Reid drawled tiredly when Gideon took the brakes off and began to move.

"Oh. Right. We can't forget Jason, can we?" The agent unlocked the door and snatched the fuzzy green plush from where it lay looking lonely next to Reid's shades.

"Here you go kiddo."

Reid mumbled a slurry thanks you and Gideon began to push the chair again. At this point he was more nervous for Reid than the kid. He asked Reid the name of various trees and clouds as they slowly approached the entrance, and Reid dutifully replied to each question.

* * *

**That's it for this chapter. Next chapter is the dental surgery. Please review.**


	21. Chapter 21: New Chompers

**itle:** Losing My Religion by Lexikal (Chapter Twenty One)  
**Rating:** M for graphic violence against a child and language (in the first chapter, chapter 8 and chapter 10 so far)  
**Fandom:** Criminal Minds  
**Summary:** After two years away from his father and his father's violent rages, Spencer Reid, now ten, is returned home. Spencer has changed... but has William Reid?

**Author's Note:** I know you guys have been waiting for this, so here it is. Life has been busy, busy, busy and when it gets busier than normal my fan fic doesn't get updated but that last chapter was too much of a cliff hanger and I do want to finish this story and get to the others. We are about 2/3rds through this story (after the end of this chapter), for those who want to know how much longer this beasty is.

**Chapter Note:** My keyboard occasionally sticks. I will quickly edit for typos, etc, but there may still be some. Taking some liberties with this upcoming dental surgery scene and from what I remember from various minor surgeries. I did some VERY limited research on the topic but couldn't find anything pertaining to paediatric dental implant surgery taking place in 1990 so I will not be using the names of specific drugs, etc. In most cases GA (General Anaesthesia) is not used, even if dental implant surgery but it may be used in extreme cases where the surgery is significantly invasive or if the patient is sufficiently anxious. I believe Reid's case would qualify on both counts, and again, this is fan fic so if something is medically off please take that into consideration.

* * *

The elevator dinged and Gideon pushed his young charge into the waiting room. He kept talking because Reid was so quiet and drugged and now, his own anxiety was coming into play. So much of human communication had nothing to do with the actual words spoken.

"We're here, buddy."

"Yeah..." He did sound a bit like a Zombie. Gideon put the brakes on his chair after wheeling him into the waiting room and approached the receptionist. She looked up and smiled brightly.

"Jason Gideon. I am here with Spencer Reid for a 9:00 procedure?" He sounded overly formal even to his own ears.

The receptionist hammered on the keyboard and nodded.

"I will phone and let the doctor know you have arrived."

"Thank you."

Gideon wandered back to Reid and sat down in a chair next to him. Reid was blinking heavily and staring around with huge, dilated eyes.

"What if I don't wake up?" The boy finally slurred, and Gideon could see that genius little brain struggling to worry even through the sedatives and pain meds.

"Reid, you'll be fine..."

"General Anaesthesia is controlled poisoning. Every year..."

"Buddy, you will be fine. Trust me." The last thing Reid needed to be doing right now was freaking himself out reciting scary surgery statistics.

"They'll put a tube down my throat?"

"Yes... remember we talked about this? You'll be asleep."

"Not 'sleep. Unconscious. Unresponsive... controlled...poisoned." He was scared but thank god for ativan, or Gideon was damned sure Reid would be completely freaking out right now.

"I'll be there with you and then when you wake up we'll go home. Maybe we can phone David and you can tell him all about your surgery. I am sure he'll be interested..."

"I don't think Rossi has any...interest... in dental procedures." Reid's voice was very, very soft and slurred. "Unless it relates to a case somehow. And sometimes dental impressions are all that is left of a person so he is perhaps interested in...dental impressions... of promise...you'll stay in...?"

"I promise I will be with you the entire time." Gideon said firmly.

"This place smells weird."

Gideon smiled a little to himself. There was a television on in the corner, mounted to the wall, blaring cartoons. The wall itself was covered with a mural of smiling, slightly insane looking teeth holding tooth brushes. Gideon wondered what sort of child that mural would actually reassure. Obviously, the adult dental professionals running the place had designed it, but what did it say, then, about their state of mind?

Gideon rubbed at his eyes. The smiling canine tooth looked mildly intimidating. He knew he was stressed when cartoons of dancing cuspids began to freak him out.

"Spencer Reid?" A nurse was standing in the open doorway that led to the surgery room, holding a clip board that contained, presumably, Reid's basic information. Gideon nodded and stood, gently wheeling a very dazed Reid in her direction.

"That's us..." Gideon said, smiling brightly, unintentionally mirroring the tone and demeanour of the woman.

"Maybe we... Gideon... maybe we could go home now instead and..." The kid was fidgeting a bit in his chair. His hands and fingers were plucking at the material of his shirt like small animals trying to start a burrow. Reality was starting to get past the drug.

"So you are Spencer?" The nurse interjected, leading them down the hall apparently oblivious to the boy's anxiety.

"Gid-yun? I don't really need to have them...all...replaced...not worried 'bout cos...cosmetic... about... aesthetics... about... I'm...not..."

"I hear you're a really brave boy," the nurse said, glancing at Gideon. Gideon nodded back at her, gently resting one hand on Reid's shoulder. Not as tense as yesterday but still plenty tense.

Then they were in the room and Gideon was helping the nurse lift Reid into the chair and trying to shut Reid's warbled but insistent protests out of his mind.

"Wait...wait!" Reid sounded slightly more alert now. Or was becoming more aware of where he was.

"I'll be back in a moment with the doctor..." the nurse said brightly, bending down to look in the kid's eyes.

"But...I think...I...I...let's just go home. Gid-yun? I think...maybe..."

She excited quickly then, still wearing that oversized grin that was probably meant to put small children at ease. Too bad Spencer Reid wasn't a typical child. Or that humans were hominids that viewed excessive flashing of the teeth as a threat display.

"Reid, buddy, shhh." Gideon grabbed a small stool and sat on it, scooting around to see Reid.

"Look at me, pal."

Reid had gone very pale in the last thirty seconds. Oh yeah. The ativan had definitely been a necessity. Necessary but not strong enough to block out the kid's growing fear.

"Doan...let's go home..." The boy's huge, chestnut eyes were getting glassy with tears.

Shit.

Gideon gently picked up one of Reid's hands and held it. It was cool and clammy and felt tiny compared to his. Reid also had extremely long fingers, the fingers of a natural pianist, and right now those long, graceful fingers were attempting to crush the life out of Jason Gideon's wrists.

"This won't take long buddy, and I will be here the whole time..."

"I want...to...I want to go back to your house...now...Gid-yun..."

Fuck. Fuck. Tears were running down his cheeks now and he was breathing a bit faster. Damn it.

And then the nurse was back and George Jane was with her, eyeing the scene from behind his thick glasses with an expression of bemusement Gideon had come to expect from the older man.

"Spencer... good morning... how are you doing?" Jane's voice was soft and gentle and steady and should have put Reid at ease but instead Reid's voice cracked and went up an octave.

"Gid-yun said...just said...I could go home and...not get anything done today..." Reid choked out. He was hiccupping now too. The dental surgeon glanced over at Gideon and Gideon shook his head sadly to indicate that Reid was not exactly being truthful.

"This is Maria", George Jane said instead, motioning to the nurse that had first led them in. "She is going to get you set up so we can get this over and done with fast, okay?"

"I...Gid-yun...I...change my mind."

"It's okay to be frightened Spencer," the nurse said brightly, approaching the boy. There was already a small little cart ready that Gideon hadn't seen immediately, needles and swabs and an elastic tie and other stuff laid out ceremoniously.

"Gid-yun...please!"

"It's okay, pal. Just look at me. This part will be fast." Gideon said earnestly, trying not to feel like the world's biggest heel.

"Yeah, really fast. And your dad will stay with you the entire time," Maria-the-nurse quipped. She had a small pulse oximeter in her hand and quickly snapped it on to one of Reid's small fingers. Reid's head jerked to the side where he could now see his heart rate and blood pressure displayed on a small screen.

"Gid-yun..." It was a plaintive whine, depressingly hopeless.

"That's just to measure your pulse..." Gideon began but Reid screwed his eyes shut in protest. No doubt the kid knew better than any adult in the room what every instrument and device in the place was for.

"We're just going to put this on you, okay, Spencer?"

It was a surgical gown large enough to slip over Reid's regular clothes. Made sense, Gideon thought darkly. There was bound to be blood. Couldn't cut away gum tissue and drill into a child's jaw bone without some blood...

"Now we just pull your arms through..." the nurse began to gently tug at one of Reid's thin, wiry arms. Gideon helped with the arm closest to him. Reid was fidgeting a lot more now, despite the cast and looked utterly helpless and small. The necessity and reason for this "procedure" once again hit Jason Gideon square in the gut. Damn, he wanted to kill William Reid. Slowly.

Reid shut his eyes again. The chair had arm rests, and his tiny fingers were gripped into the fake leather as if they wanted to rip holes.

The nurse then swabbed Reid's right hand with an alcohol swab and the kid let out a small, mewling noise of fear.

"Buddy, I am right here."

"You're just going to feel a little prick, Spencer..."

Gideon turned as the I.V. was inserted and taped in place. Reid jerked a bit. His lips were pressed together tightly; two thin, bloodless lines.

Gideon had been so focused on Reid he hadn't noticed two others enter the room. Of course there would be more. Reid was a child and he was being put under so...yeah. Gideon turned back to Reid who was breathing faster now.

"We ready?" Somebody said above Reid, but Gideon was not concerned with them. A mask was placed over the boy's face and Reid's eyes shot open in fear. Panic swam freely in those intelligent, young eyes. It was disturbing to see.

"Just count for me, Spencer," the surgeon- George Jane- said calmly. "Back from 100 by threes? Okay?"

Eyes wild, Reid nodded jerkily. Gideon watched his face, trying to make eye contact, but his eyes were flickering around everywhere. Then he began to blink more quickly, eyelids fluttering shut. Until they stayed shut.

"Agent Gideon, you can sit here." The surgeon said, not unkindly, guiding Gideon to a small chair in the corner of the room.

They were moving around Spencer, tilting his head back, inserting a breathing tube. Gideon shut his eyes and wished he could wait in the waiting room. A promise was a promise.

* * *

Reid blinked slowly, rubbed his eyes. He felt fuzzy and far away. Blinked again and licked his lips. His mouth felt numb and puffy and tasted gross. Dead flesh and blood and a chemical taste that was grosser than anything organic.

"Hey." The voice was warm and familiar and entered his awareness thickly, like honey. He blinked again and saw Gideon's face come into focus.

He was lying on something that couldn't really be defined- it wasn't really a bed, but wasn't a chair either. Sort of a reclining chair with arm rests, made of leather. The lights were dim.

Then he remembered... he'd been at the dentist's...no...the dental surgeon's. They'd put in his new "teeth" and...

"Over?" Reid said thickly. Talking was weird.

"Yeah. Your mouth is numb, so maybe not much talking?" Gideon said, not unkindly. It seemed like common sense to say but Spencer Reid was not known for his common sense.

Reid shut his eyes and nodded. He felt drained and tired and a bit shaky.

"Feel chilly." He said finally and moved his arm. His dinosaur was wedged under his arm and he lifted it to his face, smelled it. It already smelled like Gideon's house already, a unique aroma that was impossible to define through words but a good, clean smell all the same that was comforting. If he had to describe it, it smelled like eggs and popcorn and fabric softener.

"Yeah?" Gideon inquired with concern. "Want me to go ask if they have a blanket or something?" His foster father put a large, warm hand on the boy's hands and noticed that they were still a bit chilly, but not as cold as earlier. Fear, and shock, most likely... but after surgery any complaint had to be taken seriously.

"I am going to go get you a blanket. I'll be right back, okay?"

Reid wanted to protest but he was drained. And it was over. He nodded his head mutely.

* * *

"Reid is awake," Gideon announced, approaching the front desk. He'd been slowly gaining more awareness for about 15 minutes but it was nice to have his boy back and talking.

"Okay. I'll ask his doctor to come take a look at him."

"Okay. He says he is cold."

The receptionist nodded in acknowledgement and picked up the phone, relayed the information.

George Jane had changed out of his "scrubs" and was wearing his usual lab coat. He nodded in greeting when he saw the agent and followed him to the little "recovery" room.

"Hello... Spencer?" The surgeon's voice was his usual gentle, calm susurrus. Reid opened his eyes and blinked again.

"Feel cold," Reid said and shivered a bit in demonstration.

"He's probably a little shocky." The doctor told Gideon and approached Reid. Felt his wrist for his pulse, nodded to himself. Asked Reid a few basic questions which Reid seemed to answer appropriately.

"I can get someone to bring him in a blanket." George Jane finally said, after apparently reassuring himself that his patient was physically fine.

"When can I go home?" Reid piped up, his tongue working around the inside of his mouth like a curious mouse in a maze. Gideon wasn't surprised. Judging from the amount of cutting and stitching and all the suctioning for blood and tissue, the inside of Reid's mouth was probably a jungle gym of sutures. Too bad you couldn't put cones around tongues.

"Um... fifteen minutes or so?" George Jane glanced over at Gideon, as if seeking his approval. The man was well aware of just how much the boy in front of him despised being in the clinic.

"I feel okay _now_..." Reid said, a bit more loudly, a bit more clearly.

"Thought you were chilly," Gideon said, returning to his side, brushing one hand paternally over the small, fuzzy cheek. Reid's cheek was warm and would probably become hot. Already his face looked swollen, like he was developing the mumps. Gideon had been told that with dental surgery like this, swelling was very likely.

They'd shot the kid full of local anaesthetic and that would last for a few hours, but he'd still be in "some discomfort"- an obvious metaphor for extreme pain. The pain meds he already had for his other injuries would have to be enough though; anymore was getting too risky.

"After surgery we like to monitor patients for a while," the surgeon said, directing his comment at Reid.

"To make sure there are...to make sure the anaesthesia is wearing off properly and there are no complications and..." Reid licked his lips tiredly, apparently at a loss for words.

"That's right," the doctor said in approval, aware of Reid's intelligence. "Exactly right. I'll get someone to get you a blanket, okay?"

"Yeah."

The door edged shut and Gideon resumed his place sitting near Reid. His wheel chair was sitting, ready to go.

The walls had framed images of sail boats and various fish in pastel blues and greens hanging on them. It was a phenomenon Gideon had observed before; medical offices of all sorts seemed to think that boats, water, fish and on occasion, islands, were the perfect mental images to soothe the anxieties of the sick and injured.

As if reading his mind, Reid piped up: "I wonder how the fish feel." He had followed his foster father's visual trek around the room and was now smiling slightly, as if sharing a private joke.

Gideon smirked and nodded. "Yeah. Whenever I am stressed David suggests we go fishing or hunting. I always thought of that as displacing my stress onto somebody else..."

Reid laughed at that, really grinning, before making a face.

"What is it, kiddo?"

"Uck. Taste blood."

"Yeah. You have a lot of stitches and there will be some residual...blood. Not a lot of blood, I hope?"

The kid shook his head dismissively. "I just hate the taste of blood though."

That made perfect sense. Gideon nodded understandingly. Someone knocked on the door then and before either of them could respond the door opened slightly.

"I hear somebody is cold?" A young woman said cheerily. She was holding a yellow blanket patterned with what looked like teddy bears. Reid looked at his foster father and raised his eyebrows in an expression Gideon usually only saw on the faces of his colleagues when they were dealing with disturbed-albeit slightly comical- suspects. Probably the use of the word "somebody" in place of "Spencer". Gideon nodded and schooled his face into appropriate concern and rose to take the blanket.

"Yes. Thank you."

"How are we feeling?" The young woman said in the same syrupy tone. Reid turned his head out of view and into one hand and Gideon suspected that he was trying not to laugh. Right now the boy was a bundle of nerves and pent-up anxious energy and Gideon could read the signs. He had personal experience with the inappropriate giggles while on terrifically horrific cases and once you got going it could be a real chore to try and stop. Laughter, the agent reminded himself silently, was a close cousin of crying and often used in lieu of tears to express similar stress.

Right now the kid was stressed to the point of finding even the most pedestrian comments hilarious, but things could and would get awkward fast.

"I think he is feeling much better." Gideon said for Reid, and was rewarded with a choked noise that was obviously the beginning of hysterical laughter. The woman glanced at Jason Gideon with a totally confused look on her face.

"We were...we were just discussing his pet rats and how one got free this morning." Gideon lied, straight-faced, earning himself another, slightly louder, muffled bark of laughter from the ten-year-old.

"Okay. Well, here is his blanket. Hope the little guy feels better soon." The woman said in the same spunky tone of voice and handed the warmed blanket to Gideon. He nodded silently and the door closed.

Reid squealed laughter and came up for air, eyes slightly glassy.

"Reid? We can't be laughing at people..."

Reid wiped at his eyes. "Did you hear her? Jesus. It was like I was her pet yorkie or something." More laughter, louder this time.

"Reid..." Gideon said, smiling despite himself. The boy had a point. Gideon handed the kid the blanket and Reid began to laugh again as he eyed the patterned teddy-bears. "This place..." Reid began, shaking his head in amusement.

Gone was the earlier, overwhelming anxiety and clingy fear. Now that Reid knew they would not be touching him or dealing with him or doing_ anything_ to him, his usual, almost-cocky precocity had returned, amplified by relief and endorphins.

"The blanket is kind of funny, huh?" Gideon smiled down at his young charge, not bothering to inform Reid that as far as anyone over 20 was concerned, there wasn't much difference between a blanket covered in teddy bears and one covered with images of the planets and stars.

Spencer Reid barked laughter and nodded, his eyes drifting closed.

"Remember...we only have to stay...for fifteen minutes."

Gideon nodded and began to ask Reid what they should do tonight, what he might want to eat. He spoke for about two minutes before realizing that Reid had fallen asleep.

* * *

Reid roused slightly when he moved him to his chair and then wheeled him to the car. He licked his lips and sighed when Gideon gently placed him in the back seat and buckled him in.

"Home?"

"Yeah."

He slept the entire way home, not even rousing when Gideon pulled into a McDonald's drive through and ordered himself a coffee and Big Mac. Gideon pulled his car into the parking lot and ate the Big Mac quickly.

What a long, draining day this had been. Over now, Thank God. Now there was just a 'standard" medical check up, the removal of the cast, at least one appointment with a child shrink and Gideon was starting to suspect, an ophthalmologist visit. Reid spent a lot of the time squinting, especially when reading.

But today, and for the next few days at least, they were home free. The agent sighed and started in on his coffee.

* * *

Spencer slept through the drive home and even being carried into the house. Gideon rested him on the couch and covered him with a blanket before returning to the car to retrieve the boy's wheelchair. Spencer's face was already beginning to swell and Gideon hoped the kid would wake up on his own soon so he could have some fluids and take his pain pills and maybe some aspirin. His cheeks were hot to the touch and a bright pink.

The kid looked like he had the mumps.

Gideon returned with the wheelchair and unfolded it next to the couch, then put the brakes on. He used the washroom and put on the kettle for a pot of coffee and returned to the kid's side. Watched him sleep, the long eyelashes jet black against skin that was pale except for the uncharacteristically red and swollen cheeks. Small, distinguished nose. Hair that was starting to look like chestnut coloured peach fuzz but in Gideon's memory fell in waves slightly below the boy's chin. Large, puffy lips. The features of a sleeping little child. How anyone could intentionally harm such a small, innocent child was something Jason Gideon would never understand. He might be able to parrot back theories and even predict future behaviour based on past behaviour. He did all the time for his job. But he still never really *got* it, not in his gut, not really. All the hypothesises in the world couldn't ever really explain evil.

And he had no doubt William Reid was an evil man. Not sick. Not in need of "help". Evil. Evil was a word Jason Gideon didn't use lightly or often, and perhaps (and if he was being honest with himself almost certainly) he felt so strongly about this particularly case because he knew Spencer Reid. Loved him like a son.

With the victims in the crimes he profiled- they were almost always bodies when he got to them anyway- he didn't know them. He had no real emotional connection to either the Unsub or the victims, nothing deeper than the universal compassion most sane people felt for any human simply because they are human.

But he knew Spencer. He loved the boy. Was that all that separated him from viewing someone as evil? Knowing and loving their victim? If that was the case he wasn't nearly as objective as he had once believed himself to be.

Gideon sighed and leaned over, gently kissed the kid on the forehead and pulled the phone out of the cradle. Maybe David was home.

* * *

End of Chapter Twenty One. This was supposed to be done days ago. Will try *harder* to get these out in a more timely manner. If you liked this chapter, please review. If you hated it, please review. If you were indifferent, please review. Thanks. Lexikal


	22. Chapter 22: Jason

**Title:** Losing My Religion by Lexikal (Chapter Twenty Two)  
**Rating:** M for graphic violence against a child and language (in the first chapter, chapter 8 and chapter 10 so far)  
**Fandom:** Criminal Minds  
**Summary:** After two years away from his father and his father's violent rages, Spencer Reid, now ten, is returned home. Spencer has changed... but has William Reid?

**Author's Note:** SCROLL DOWN TO READ STORY. ;) You guys have been so great in your reviews (thanks for all the acclaim, but also for the critiques and suggestions which help me improve!). I have some questions for you loyal, awesome readers. Reid will be going through a lot with Gideon and he will be with him for at least another 6 months. He has only been with Gideon so far about 2 weeks. Does anybody mind if I do some scenes which skip a few weeks to more important parts? I started this fan fic for me but I am continuing it for you guys so if you want it day by day I will do that... but after about the next week (3-4 more chapters) I think we could get away with about a 3 month jump (to about Thanksgiving- it's summer in this story right now). Also, someone asked in a review why William Reid doesn't care if people know he has hit Spencer, but why he is so secretive about the sexual abuse. For a few reasons- 1st, he does technically deny hitting Spencer and is trying to blame it on Reid's mother (claiming she "forgot" to take her medication and attacked Reid because of paranoid delusions) 2nd, The sexual abuse hasn't been officially reported yet (as far as Reid's father is concerned) so if he can keep another serious allegation at bay, all the better and 3rd, even amongst child abusers, sexual abuse is generally considered the most perverse and taboo act a person can commit.

Keep in mind this story also takes place in 1990, almost 22 years ago now, and that a lot has changed in how we look at child abuse in those 22 years. In the late 80s and early 90s a lot of people assumed that any male that molested a boy was automatically gay, and as sick as *all* abusers are, sexual orientation rarely has anything to do with why they abuse. The reasons are a lot more complicated than that, but would take too long to explain in an author's note. If William Reid's behaviour in this story confuses you (as it probably does a lot of people, especially those unfamiliar with child abuse) I recommend doing some research on your own pertaining to the characteristics and attitudes of child abusers. There have been some excellent books written on the subject.

**Chapter Note:** My keyboard occasionally sticks. I will quickly edit for typos, etc, but there may still be some. I tried to make the last chapter realistic. I have never had dental implants but I have had dental surgery, including being put completely out, and have had my gums cut and my jaw bone cut into (not drilled into, I believe they used some chisel type thing...obviously I didn't ask ;)). The pain Reid feels coming up is loosely based on my own experience (I imagine dental implants would be really painful, but again, can't say for sure because I have never technically had any) So some of what I wrote in the last chapter was personal experience. If it still doesn't seem realistic...well... my problem. Also, if anybody reading this was abused, please know that people care and you can get better. You are here. That is important.

* * *

"Spencer, look at me. I heard you screaming."

Jason. His voice was gruff and tired and ancient. Reid sighed and pushed his face into the couch cushions and moaned. He felt hot and sickly and the first tinglings of pain were starting to make themselves known. Throbbing, deep aches which were igniting small bonfires in his nerves and would be screaming soon. He wanted to sleep.

"Kid, you have to talk to me. I know things have been hard..."

"Not now..." Reid moaned and burrowed his face deeper into the cushion. He wanted to sleep, to rest. A deep and ancient feeling was upon him, a primal emotion he had never read accurately articulated in any text. He had always thought of it as "the creeped out feeling"- a feeling that sank fear into one's bones and made even the bravest of souls want to hide under the blankets. It wasn't anxiety or panic, and to call it simple fear would be inaccurate. If Spencer Reid was to pair the sensation to music, he would chose Gyorgy Ligeti's "Requiem". It was a feeling that reality had ceased making sense and any safety there may have originally had been had long ago vanished, leaving behind an aching, yawning void. If it was a color it would be...

"Spencer. Nothing is going to change. You have to talk to me. You know that."

He moaned again, louder. He would talk to Gideon later. He just wanted to sleep.

"You are a mess." Jason's voice was deeper than normal, filled with concern and caring, but under that, like a knife, was the mind of a brilliant profiler. "I know you want to hide from all of this... and from yourself. But you know that isn't possible."

"Am sleeping..."

"Look at me." Jason was closer to him, and Reid turned from the pillows and unshuttered his eyes. Jason's breath was hot and wet on his cheek. Ancient, ancient breath. The smell of pine needles and eucalyptus was suddenly thick in the air.

"Look at me, son."

And he did.

Jason had tracked mud all over the floors. All over the previously clean hardwood floors.

"Your father wants you back, kiddo. You need to let me help you. It's more important now than ever."

"Please... I just want to sleep... Gid-yun..."

"Don't call me that. That's not my name." The voice was rougher now, not angry exactly, not really. "Sit up and look at me. Look at me, Spencer. We need to talk."

There was something in that voice that sparked his blood stream like lightning and sent tingles into his nerves. An electric, neon jolt of fear. He sat up and wiped the fatigue from his eyes with small, ten-year old hands.

The eyes looking back at him were compassionate and ancient. They had seen too much and experienced too much and they knew him inside and out. Under their scrutiny, Spencer Reid felt naked.

"You can talk to me. I know exactly what you need to say-"

"You don't know *shit*!" And there it was, spit out like something dead and evil in his mouth. A specimen for all to study.

The eyes staring back at him were dark and oily and had seen beasts swarm the trees. Lizards with wings.

"I know you. Because I am you."

Jason was standing in the middle of the room, giant feet coated with mud. His face, compassionate as always, was frowning slightly in dismay.

"I...I'm scared Jason."

"I *know*."

"You don't know." Reid's voice was the shredded remnant of a croak.

"I do. Look at me."

So he did. He took in everything. The kind, older-than-their-years eyes. The gentle upturned mouth. The bowed, wrinkled head.

Jason moved forward and laid his reptilian head against the boy's hot, swollen cheek and sighed. He even smelled like the Cretacious, old and muddy and swampy.

"I was dead, and now I live. I am just like you. So please... talk to me."

"He'll never understand. He can't understand." Reid's voice held a deep, aching sadness. The beast beside him glanced over at Gideon, sitting in an easy chair, reading a book, and looked back at Reid in confirmation. Reid nodded.

The dinosaur moved closer and ducked its graceful head into the crook of the boy's arm. Lifted that small, willowy arm up. Spencer nodded in understanding and sat up.

"I can't tell him, Jason. I can't even tell myself. I just...I don't know what I want. I'm scared. I don't like this. I don't want to think anymore. I just want everything to...I want to be normal."

"And yet here you are. Talking to someone who has been dead and buried for more than 65 million years." Jason's beastly head bobbed as he talked and it took a moment for the child to realize he was speaking to his friend telepathically.

"Why do they do it? People like my father? Why? You are old. You must know."

"In my time..." the dinosaur's voice was a soft whisper. "It was simpler. Beings killed for flesh or food but always for survival. I killed... I killed trees. I ate leaves. My kind and I destroyed trees that long ago became extinct. But always for survival. It made more sense back then."

"You didn't answer my question."

"I can't answer your question." Jason's voice was soft and plaintive now, like a child trying to avoid punishment for a mistake he couldn't have possibly have conceived.

"Why not?" Spencer was awake now, and more confident. The lights had been dimmed, but the television was on. A re-run of "The Andy Griffith Show" was on television, and Opie was pining on the front stoop with a black eye.

"I can't tell you what you want to know, because you don't know what you want to know."

And with that, the dinosaur staggered away. After a few, awkward steps it fell to the ground and turned back into fabric and stuffing, the eyes, moments ago so lucid and intelligent, once again glass marbles...

* * *

Spencer gasped. Cried out in his sleep. Gideon watched the kid and put down his novel and scooted closer. Reid was cradling his dinosaur plush in his arms and crying softly.

"Reid, buddy... It's okay. Wake up, pal."

Reid gasped and blinked and stared up into the concerned face of his foster father.

"Gid-yun?"

"Hi, kiddo." Gideon smiled back at the boy and carefully wiped his sweaty forehead. Reid's cheeks were hot, his eyes full of tears.

"You've been asleep for a while. How are you feeling?"

"Gid-yun?" Reid sounded disoriented and scared and that snapped the profiler's attention to the child's face. Reid was awake, propping himself up on his elbows, staring at his tented knees and the plush toy that lay between them with an expression that was chilling.

"Reid? What's the matter?"

Reid blinked and finally nodded, as if answering an unspoken question. The nod was unrelated to anything Jason Gideon had actually said.

"Uh...nothing." His voice sounded hoarse when he finally spoke. He licked his lips nervously, wiped at sleep-swollen eyes.

"Seemed like you were having a bad dream..." Gideon prompted, waiting for the kid to talk. If he wanted to.

Reid shrugged and sighed. He was staring at his dinosaur intently, a thin crease forming between his eyes in concentration. Eventually he shook his head, as if clearing away cobwebs, and looked up.

"Was dreaming something. It's gone now." His voice sounded thicker than normal and his cheeks were hot. Suddenly he realized that his jaw and head were pounding and closed his eyes again with a groan.

"What time is it?"

"Uh... almost six." Gideon was still sitting and staring at him, book abandoned. When Reid failed to say anything more, the profiler rose.

"I am going to get you some juice. And your pain pills. You need something besides water. I think your blood sugar is low."

Reid said nothing, just lay with his head resting on the pillows, eyes shut. The pain in his jaw was the hot, pulsing type of pain that hurt slightly worse with every heart beat. His head ached, too, and his leg- which had been feeling better lately- felt achy and raw and itchy now. Gideon returned with a juice box and some pills and laid them on the table next to the boy.

Reid eyed the juice box, lipped his lips and croaked: "I hate apple juice."

"I'm sorry, your majesty." Gideon said, smirking slightly. "Three days ago you liked apple juice just fine."

"It tastes like sweetened cat piss," Reid said thickly, grabbing at his pain pills and sipping on the juice box straw despite his apparent revulsion.

"Of course it does..." Gideon muttered tiredly, picking up his book again. But not before sizing up the kid again with his eyes.

"You can tell me if you're in pain, Reid."

"That won't do anybody any good," Reid said glumly, rubbing the small bandage on his hand where the IV had been inserted just hours earlier.

"Maybe not, but sometimes people find it helps just to let someone else know how they are feeling."

"That's because people are inherently selfish and like to spread their misery around," Reid snapped back in a mild tone from the cushions, eyes shut. Even though he had been napping for hours he still felt exhausted. Bone-weary tired... like his blood had been drained and replaced with... he was too tired to come up with an acceptable metaphor. But he did feel drained.

"They are? Well, thanks for the heads up, kiddo." Gideon sounded downright amused now, and his amusement was irritating to the child. Reid was dully aware that he was irritable, and the irritability had a lot to do with repressed tension and anxiety and current physical pain, but Gideon's tone wasn't helping. Gideon, in general, seemed to either find him amusing or stressful, as far as Reid could tell, and neither was acceptable. He wanted Gideon to think of him as a peer, almost, a chronologically younger peer. Someone who, due to his chronological age alone, needed to be legally "cared for". Not a screwy, stress-inducing, traumatized little child like Gideon no doubt saw him.

"You don't have to be condescending, Gid-yun." Reid said, eyes still shut, willing the pain medication to be metabolized faster into his bloodstream. Now that his surgery was over a lot of his fear and anxiety had dissipated, and in its place was a grumpy little nit-picking troll.

"I wasn't trying to be condescending, Reid." Gideon remarked earnestly. Reid cracked an eye open and sought out the profiler.

"Of course you weren't." Reid said crankily, gently palpating his fingers over his swollen cheek. "I must be being overly sensitive and irritable for some reason, then."

"You said it, not me," Gideon said lightly. "I am going to go back to reading now. I'll be here if you need me."

Reid made an annoyed huffing noise and rolled over, his back to the room. Gideon was irritating him. Why didn't he go read upstairs or something instead of sitting 5 feet away like a hyperactive mother hen?

Jeez.

* * *

"Hey? How's the kid?"

Jason Gideon smiled. He had managed to get through to Rossi. Had tried earlier and gotten the machine.

"Ah, suddenly acting very irritable. Seems pretty exhausted too."

"He has been under a lot of stress." Rossi said simply, stating the obvious.

"Yeah. It's so hard to know what he needs. One minute he seems clingy, almost, and terrified and the next he is doing an excellent ticked off teenager impersonation and seems almost insulted that you notice he is breathing."

Rossi was quiet for just a second, before responding. "You understand this. Reid has been through a lot. His emotions are going to be over the place, depending on the situation. And as things get better, his behaviour runs the very real risk of becoming seemingly worse."

Gideon sighed tiredly. He knew this, but it was nice for Rossi to articulate what he already knew.

"As he feels more comfortable, fears and anxieties he is repressing now will come to the surface..."

"Of course." Rossi's voice was kind and patient.

"How was your case?" Gideon asked after a moment, feeling mildly guilty for being so focused on Reid and Reid's problems. There was a sigh on the other end of the line, the type of sigh that told Gideon that his friend and colleague was stressed and had just finished with a case that would leave its mark.

"We got two of them back." Rossi finally admitted, voice inscrutable.

Two children found alive, from the eight that had been missing just a few days ago.

"UnSub... in custody?" Gideon prompted. Another sigh, slightly less pronounced.

"UnSub- James Marshall Whitney in case you have been watching the televion- is dead."

"Why are you even at home?" Gideon asked gently. Rossi lived alone. Most of his team had probably gone out for a meal together to decompress and lick each other's wounds, and many members of his team, Gideon knew, also had partners.

"Oh? And go spread my cheer around like a plague-infected rat? No thanks." The tone of voice sounded easy, almost jovial, but Gideon knew David Rossi better than that.

"You know, Reid said something like that earlier. Something to the effect that humans are inherently selfish and like to spread their misery around..."

There was a small laugh over the line. "The kid is too jaded for ten."

"You...I thought you were a fan of people airing out their demons." Gideon's voice was superficially bright. In his mind he could hear Rossi above him, telling him to breathe. Rossi guiding him roughly outside so he could puke on the pavement out of sight of the others. The smell of that child's head in the clothes dryer had been so intense and David had stayed so calm even as the strange, garbled noise had built up around him. Had stayed calm even when Jason Gideon had finally realized that he was the one keening in such abject horror.

"I am okay. This isn't a breakdown situation, Jason." Rossi finally said slowly, aware of the memory that had prompted his friend's comment. There was a moment of awkward silence as both men contemplated what to say. Rossi spoke first.

"So. That dental operation. They screwed fake teeth into his jaw or something? 5 new teeth and 4-6 months for the bone to heal? General Anaesthesia?"

"Something like that. I told you about it?" Gideon was surprised. He knew he had mentioned something to Rossi, but he didn't remember being so specific.

"Reid did... a few days ago. Left me a message on my answering machine, actually. Inquired about Nintendo retailers."

Gideon waited for Rossi to admit that he was joking. Finally shook his head, sighing.

"He didn't." Gideon said slowly.

"Oh, he did. I don't think I have ever received such a technical answering machine message before. I almost saved the tape for you but figured there was nothing important in it that pertained to... Reid's situation. But yep. He was talking about Nintendos. And teeth. And inquired when he could come to the unit for a tour and to check out the facilities."

"Do you think one would help?" It was only a half joke. He knew Rossi was right about Reid's behaviour being a reaction to stress. And the kid had a long way to go before he made any real peace with anything.

"A Nintendo? I don't know. Is he still pretty immobile?"

"Yeah."

"Maybe. Unless you want to be carting him back and forth to the library every other day. Might give him an outlet. I don't know. Speaking of carting the kid around... you ever consider looking into a babysitter. So you can actually go out, maybe go shopping, without him?"

"I don't think that would be good for Reid... right now. He still has a lot of trust issues."

"What about home delivery services, then? Someone to drop off your groceries and stuff?"

Gideon hadn't thought of that.

"That's... I could kiss you."

"Please don't." The laugh was evident in Rossi's voice. "I use home delivery all the time, can give you a few numbers. I am not even housebound, just don't like shopping."

Gideon grabbed a pen and memo pad off his nightstand and came back to the phone. Scrawled down Rossi's home delivery numbers.

"And I can use some of those people to pick up stuff from other stores?"

"Sure. Last number I gave you is some college kid who lives in the area. For 20% of the bill he'll come over, get your list, then run around to different places and bring you back your stuff. It's great."

"You must really hate shopping."

"It's why I got divorced," David Rossi said, totally dead-pan. Gideon smiled, despite himself.

"Speaking of kids running around- I am sure Reid will calm down a little when he can actually move again. Most kids his age are pretty active. He probably is suffering from some strange variation of cabin fever."

"I hope that's part of it." Gideon said. The urge to sigh was back.

"Exercise is great for reducing stress. Why do you think they had us running so many miles at the academy?"

"An introduction to sadistic behaviour?"

"See, you'll be fine..." Rossi responded cheerfully.

"Listen. Maybe you shouldn't be alone for a bit. You are welcome to come over and I am sure Reid would love to see you and..."

"What? Handcuff me again? Nah. It's okay, Jason. I am going to get an early night, I think."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Kind of tired."

"Yeah. David... I am sorry."

There was a moment of silence over the phone, different than the earlier awkward silence. This was speculative, almost respectful, like a moment of silence observed in honour of the dead.

"There is some horrible brutality in this world. On the upside, I think it's balanced by strength and compassion. I hope so."

"Phone if you need anything?"

"Will do. And tell the kid hi for me."

"I will."

The line clicked and Gideon sat staring down at the pad of scrawled numbers. He ran his friends' words through his head a few times, gleaning the strength from them. The bedside clock told him it was nearing 8. Time to wake up Reid or transport him to his own bed. The last thing either of them needed was for Reid to wake up at 3 am and decide to turn the TV on full blast.

* * *

End of Chapter 22, please review. The conversation between Rossi and Gideon was harder to write than I thought it would be. It's hard to get two character's personalities across through dialogue alone, especially given the fact that Rossi and Gideon were never team-mates or friends on the show (that we know of). Also, part of me feels the need to explain some of Reid's behaviour (mood swings, etc) to some readers who may be unfamiliar with the effects of stress and trauma on kids, while at the same time I don't want to be too obvious about explaining anything. For those that are interested, many times the "safer" (emotionally and physically) someone feels after trauma, the more their behaviour seems to worsen. This can be due to the fact that they now feel safe enough to deal with fears and issues that they were previously repressing or ignoring. Often times, as the environment in which someone with trauma issues becomes more stable and calm, the more obvious the person's original anxiety, anger, etc. One example of this delayed reaction is how many people appear calm and in control during a crisis (car accident, natural disaster, whatever) and begin to develop panic attacks or depression weeks or months after the initial stressor.


	23. Chapter 23: Robot Boy

**Title:** Losing My Religion by Lexikal (Chapter Twenty Three)  
**Rating:** M for graphic violence against a child and language (in the first chapter, chapter 8 and chapter 10 so far)  
**Fandom:** Criminal Minds  
**Summary:** After two years away from his father and his father's violent rages, Spencer Reid, now ten, is returned home. Spencer has changed... but has William Reid?

**Author's Note:** Thanks for all the reviews, guys. This story has a lot more to it. Then I promise I will start working on the others that I left dangling.

**Chapter Note:** My keyboard occasionally sticks. I will quickly edit for typos, etc, but there may still be some. If this gets posted soon (as in, back to back with chapter twenty two) it's because I have a bit of free time and free "energy" right now. Can't promise anything though, but I am trying to work on this a bit more often than I was, say, a month ago. This chapter touches on some difficult issues with Reid's past but isn't oo graphic. Please review.

* * *

"Reid, come on. Wake up."

Reid said something like "Not now," and burrowed his face into the cushions.

"You have been napping all day."

"Don't feel well." His voice was muffled.

"Yeah, I know. Your teeth hurting you? Come on. Sit up and talk to me."

Sighing dramatically Reid raised his head.

"Why did you wake me up? I was just sleeping..."

"If you want to go to sleep for the night, that's fine. But maybe we should get you some clean clothes? You have been wearing the same things all day."

"So what?" The kid was still cranky. His eyes were swollen from sleep and his cheeks were huge and red. He made a small groaning noise and stared around the dimmed living room.

"It's almost 8." Gideon said before the kid could ask. "I could make you something to eat. Some scrambled eggs?"

Reid had a list of foods he "could" eat for the next few weeks. Mushy, simple foods that didn't require much chewing.

"Eggs are gross." The kid said simply, matter apparently closed.

Gideon nodded, too tired to inquire why eggs were suddenly "gross", and sat down in the chair next to the couch.

"I noticed you like sleeping out here. On the sofa."

"It's comfortable." The kid said simply.

"Your bed... it's not comfortable?"

"I prefer the couch. And I like the TV."

"I noticed that too." Gideon rubbed at his stubble. He wanted a shower and bed, but it was still too early for either. One of them had to stick to something resembling a sleep schedule.

"Noticed what? That I like TV?"

"No. That you like the television *on*. Like it is right now. Even when you're not watching it."

Reid shrugged noncommittally, plucked up the remote control and turned it off. He gave his foster father a pointed look that said "happy now?" and carefully placed the remote on the coffee table.

"Better?"

"I don't mind the TV on. Or you sleeping on the sofa..." How to start this? In a little less than a week Reid was scheduled to talk with a social worker and one of their kiddie shrinks and Gideon was required by law to tell them what he suspected. He'd already shared the tape recording of Reid's dissociated ramblings with the people, and the boy was going to have one hell of a time if he went in blind, so to speak.

"Do you remember having a nightmare a few days ago? A really bad one?"

The kid instantly froze. Only for a second but the change was dramatic and not one Gideon could easily write off.

"Uh...no."

"That's okay. You were pretty out of it." Gideon said kindly. He had been thinking since that event about how to broach this topic with Reid, and sometimes there was no easy way to go about these things. You just had to come out and say it.

"Out of it?" Reid said slowly, a creeping awareness spreading over his small, elfin features. "What do you mean?"

"You know what dissociation means." It wasn't a question, and nor was it said harshly, but the kid's cheeks immediately seemed to turn a bit redder. He gulped, and it was audible.

"I am going to make some coffee. If you don't feel like going to sleep, you can have a little bit. With lots of milk."

"Yeah..." the boy said listlessly, usual enthusiasm nowhere to be found.

Gideon got up, stretched, and went into the kitchen. Put the water on and pulled the Folger's out of the freezer. He heard the television click back on, heard Reid shuffling through channels. Something that sounded like cartoons was suddenly blaring from the living room. There was the sound of animated gunfire and something robotic speaking in a loud booming tone.

Gideon focused on the task at hand, running through all the possible ways to initiate this conversation. Nothing he came up with had a good result, as far as Reid's emotional state was involved. He busied himself in the kitchen, wiping coffee stains off the linoleum counters, making a mental list of what foods Reid could and could not eat and what they were running low on. Finally the water was ready. The profiler spooned 5 heaping tablespoons into the French press, filled it with water, and plunged the press down. Pulled out two cups, filled the kid's half way with milk and a good dose of sugar.

Reid must have heard the coffee being prepared because the television flipped a few more channels. Now a car chase was booming from the living room, some comedy movie, and Reid's tense, put-on laughter. The kid was bright, alright. He knew how to deflect attention expertly. With growing sadness, Gideon filled the cups with the hot, dark liquid and brought them back to the living room.

Reid's head jerked up tensely and then he followed Gideon's gaze to the table, and the drink that had been placed before him like a peace offering.

"Thank you," his voice was low, nervous.

"Not every day." Gideon said paternally, helping the kid pick up the cup so he wouldn't spill his coffee all over the floor. Reid was sitting up against the cushions, sipping his coffee, watching his guardian warily.

"I'm not going to bite," Gideon said cheerfully, sitting down, reaching for his own drink. Reid watched him without comment.

"So..." How did you ask a little kid about something like this?

Reid took a gulp of his coffee and stared up at Gideon with huge, innocent eyes. Gideon smiled, as much to reassure himself as the boy he'd come to think of as his son, and took a sip too.

"You don't remember that really bad nightmare you had a few days ago?"

"No." No hesitation. If anything, the response was too speedy.

"Okay. That's okay. I don't remember a lot of my dreams either."

Reid nodded seriously, doing his best little professor impersonation.

"Most people don't remember most of their dreams. We only consciously remember the parts that stand out if we wake up during or right after a REM cycle and even then, because we enter alpha states relatively rapidly we usually forget most of the details. That is why many writers and artists keep dream journals. So they can remember their dreams. Many famous artists even incorporate the symbolism of their dreams into their artwork."

"Right. Uh huh. Have you ever kept a dream journal?" Gideon probed. If the kid needed to intellectualize this to get through it, Gideon could at least give him that tiny bit of comfort.

"No. I thought about it. But back home my schedule was so hectic... you know... and most dream analysis relies on Freudian archetypes and I am not a Freudian by nature..." Reid was staring into his coffee cup intently.

"What about Jungian archetypes? Or simply writing your dreams out for inspiration?"

"No. Never...that's actually a very good idea. Thank you, Gid-yun."

"You're welcome. I can pick you up a journal if you want. To write your dreams in... or anything else you feel like writing down."

"I- I have notebooks. Remember? I just never seriously considered keeping a dream journal. I never really gave it much thought, but now..." the kid trailed off. No doubt he knew where this was leading. Gideon knew how to read body language and every one of his profiler's instincts was telling him that if Reid hadn't been immobilized in that damn cast he would have been up and pacing. Or suggesting an evening constitutional. Or *something*.

"Reid, remember I told you that the people from Child Welfare want you to speak to a child psychiatrist?" That was part of it. Gideon also wanted Reid to speak to one. So that Reid could have his say. So that there would be less of a chance of his bastard father ever reclaiming him.

"Yeah...yes, I remember. I don't think it's necessary though. I am... I'm okay."

"I think you are doing reasonably well, too, considering everything you have been through." Gideon put his coffee down on the table.

"But you still are going to make me see one..." Reid trailed softly.

"In cases like this... child abuse cases, Reid... they have to know what happened."

"They have the medical files."

"Yes. But remember I told you, your father is saying your mother must have hurt you? Because of her illness? Her schizophrenia?"

Reid made a face. "She didn't hurt me. She'd never."

"I know. I believe you. That's why they have to talk to you. To hear everything from you. And they will ask you questions, and some of them might be hard to answer."

"Yeah." The kid was still staring at his coffee.

"Okay. And they might ask you... Reid, you know I am a profiler. I profile human behaviour for a living. I profile people who commit crimes primarily, but part of my job also relies on being able to profile the behaviour of victims. Or of people who have been hurt, survivors. We compare the behaviour of people who act in unusual ways to the behaviour of people who act, for lack of a better word, normally. That is a lot of how we figure things out."

"Uh huh. Yup." No statistics. No bright-eyed enthusiasm. The kid had to know where this was leading.

"Okay. Well just like certain actions in a crime can help us figure out things about the people who committed the crime... sometimes a person's behaviour can give us clues about what has happened to them in the past."

Reid just nodded his head. Slightly. Took another nervous gulp of his coffee.

One very likely question they will ask you, based on your behaviour, but also just as a general question, is how your father hurt you. They will want specifics, and it's very important to be honest with these people, because their notes will become part of a legal record."

Reid nodded again. Gideon noticed the slight tremor in his hands that had absolutely nothing to do with too much caffeine and decided to press on.

"They're going to want to know if your father... if he hurt you in any way besides the ways that were listed in the medical report. If he abused you in any way that wasn't strictly physical in nature."

Reid put the coffee cup down on the table and sighed.

"Emotional abuse is always a component of psychical abuse, if you think about it, and as you know, my father, he has anger issues. I know he does. You think so too, right?" The kid's words were speedy, melding together.

Gideon nodded, expression serious. He didn't tell Reid exactly what he thought of his so-called father, and what he, himself, would call the man technically. Reid didn't need to hear from his foster father's lips that his father was a narcissistic sociopath. The kid was smart enough to have figured out the technical details.

"I think he has more than anger issues, Reid. And if I was to profile him, based on his behaviour and your behaviour do you know what I'd think?"

Reid shook his head no. He probably had a fairly good idea of how his father would be profiled. He just didn't want to hear it.

"I would think that a man like your father, given some of his comments and your behaviour..."

"You keep saying my behaviour. I am just... jumpy... okay? I think I have reason to be a bit hypervigilant."

"Yes, I think you do, too. I think you have a lot of good reasons. Some you probably have never told anybody about."

Reid risked looking up at that. His face had gone very pale, except for his cheeks, which were a brighter red, to Gideon's mind, than they had been a few short minutes ago. His eyes were glassy, and not all of that was from meds. And even though the room was fairly dim, the kid's pupils were much too large.

"Would I be correct in my assessment, would you say?"

"I feel... I think I am maybe kind of tired after all."

"Reid. This is important. I know it's hard to talk about..."

Reid's face twisted up as if he had bitten into a lemon. He shook his head no.

"It's not hard to talk about?"

"It's not hard to talk about."

"Okay. Will you talk with me then? If I ask you some questions, even if they seem really hard to answer, will you try to answer them?"

"I want to go to sleep. My teeth hurt..."

Reid was rubbing his jaw now, as if to demonstrate that his teeth, indeed, did hurt. And no doubt they did. But the meds the kid was on had taken care of the worst of it and he hadn't been moaning about physical pain a few minutes ago.

"Reid..." They could talk around in circles the entire night. Gideon really didn't want to play the kid the tape. That was over-kill.

"Yes?"

"Did your father ever abuse you? Sexually?"

There. It was out. Gideon had tried to make it as painless and clinical as possible, because he knew that Reid seemed to crave looking at the world through a detached, clinical lens when he was scared or humiliated.

Reid was quiet for a long moment, head bent. His throat was working, and Gideon was sure he was going to cry. When he looked up, though, there was urgency in his eyes, almost panic.

"Don't...don't feel...bathroom..."

"You need to go to the bathroom?"

Reid shook his head no, fervently.

"Do you need a bucket?" Gideon asked, cluing in.

Reid nodded and shut his eyes. Gideon raced to the washroom and returned with the mop bucket just in time. The tiny amount of coffee and milk Reid had drunk came up in a moaning retch. Gideon held the bucket, careful of invading the boy's space. Finally he seemed done and sat back into the pillows, shuddering. Wiping at his mouth with the sleeve of his sweat shirt. Gideon slowly, deliberately, took the bucket to the bathroom and washed it out. Came back to his foster son.

"Reid, he hurt you like that, didn't he? That's why you got sick right now?"

Silence. Reid kept his eyes closed. Gideon could see the kid's chest thumping through the fabric of his sweatshirt as his heart beat wildly.

"If they ask you, you have to tell them the truth." The profiler said softly, studying his young charge from the chair. He wanted to get up and pick the boy up, hold him, cuddle him. No doubt Reid would strongly resist right now. Still, it was hard to watch him lie there looking so small and miserable and alone.

"We don't have to talk about this anymore tonight. But I thought, maybe, if I broached the subject with you earlier rather than later it wouldn't be so upsetting when they ask you."

Reid nodded his head- whether he was agreeing with Gideon or simply trying to shut him up, was anyone's guess.

"I'm going to go get you some water to rinse out your mouth. And some milk, okay? I think you need something in your stomach."

Another slight nod.

"Can I have the rest of my coffee?" Reid finally asked when Gideon came back.

"Sure." It was hard not to smile at that, despite the circumstances.

* * *

He sat with Reid for a long while watching television. Finally picked up the sheet of Reid-friendly foods and ran through it with the kid.

While his jaw was healing the kid would be on a mush-diet. Scrambled eggs, pudding, protein drinks, apple sauce, ice cream. Anything that didn't require much, if any, chewing. Reid shook his head at most of the suggestions. After 35 minutes all Gideon had written on the grocery list he and Reid had started together was "Coffee" and "Milk".

"You can't exist on coffee."

"I'll drink milk, too."

"Reid... that's not good enough. You know that. I thought you liked pudding?"

Reid sighed, a long, drawn-out, world weary sigh. "Fine. Fudge. Not tapioca or vanilla."

"Not butterscotch?" Gideon said, more to keep the conversation going than anything else.

"Eww. Not butterscotch. Definitely not banana. If they even have that here."

"Okay. Fudge Pudding."

"Jello Brand. The snack-pack ones." Reid informed Gideon seriously, no ounce of a joke. Gideon nodded and added the brand name in brackets. Added eggs, bacon, white bread, oatmeal and orange juice to the list.

"What about pasta? You like pasta, don't you?"

"Not Ramen noodles... those have no nutritional value whatsoever."

"Okay, Reid. Try to focus here. All I have listed down here for actual food for you is chocolate pudding."

"Fudge pudding," Reid corrected. "But I don't mind chocolate either."

"List three more things. That you can eat." This was, pardon the expression, like pulling teeth.

Reid was silent for a long time. "Most of my favourite foods require actual chewing."

"How about fruit? You like fruit, right? Maybe bananas?"

The kid sighed. "I like peaches. The type that come in cans."

Great. Pudding and canned peaches. And coffee. The kid was going to be bouncing around the house like a cartoon character, wheelchair or not.

"How about oatmeal? Instant oatmeal?"

"Okaaaay." Reid sighed, but his colour had improved. Gideon had the distinct feeling the kid was revelling in this distraction from the evening's earlier "talk."

"I will eat oatmeal. I like the peaches and cream ones. In the little packets."

"Okay... how about soup? Do you like soup?" Gideon coaxed. So far all of Reid's recommendations were chock full of sugar or caffeine.

"Okay. Yeah. Clam chowder. And I like pea soup. And the vegetable soup with the little... oh... I like Chef Boyardee."

"I thought you didn't eat red meat?"

"The canned spaghetti and tomato sauce. And Zoodles. Or Alphagetti. Whatever they call it here."

"The pasta that looks like little letters of the alphabet?"

"Yeah. I like to spell things out. Like one week, I tried to see how many letters I could put together to form the latin symbols of different elements. I never seemed to find the right letters to form Xenon. It's hard to find Xs in that stuff."

Gideon grinned, shook his head. Wondered if Reid had been responsible for doing the grocery shopping at home. From the sounds of it, probably.

At least he was no longer shaky and was making decent eye contact again. Gideon had broached the subject. It hadn't gone terrifically well, but not as badly as Gideon had feared.

"I got some phone numbers from David..." Gideon mumbled, adding more to the grocery list.

"Oh?" Reid glanced up from his spot on the couch, where he had been twisting his Rubik's cube around and around without apparent purpose.

"Yeah. David knows some people. You phone them up, they come pick up your shopping list and buy your stuff and then deliver it."

"For free?" Reid asked, putting the cube down on the table next to the empty coffee cup.

"Supplemental income. I think most of them are college kids."

"Just groceries? Can they go to the library too?"

Gideon thought about this for a second. Finally shrugged.

"List 5 books. When I call, I'll ask. It might be a possibility."

"Could they go tonight?"

"Reid, it's almost 10 at night. The library is closed, my friend."

"Can they pick up movies from Blockbuster? You have a Blockbuster card, right? They could borrow it when they come."

"Reid..."

"If they are college students they might work weird hours. Plus, then we will have stuff to do tomorrow. Because we don't have to do anything tomorrow, do we, Gid-yun? Plus, then you can have your bacon for breakfast if one of them comes and gets it all now. Isn't Safeway open till midnight or something? Logically, you have to admit, my way makes sense."

Gideon rolled his eyes. "Write down the names of 5 movies."

"I don't know the titles. Can I write down the types of movies I am interested in?"

"You can. I can't guarantee whoever does our shopping will be able to find anything that meets your unique requirements." Gideon reached over and snatched the phone out of the cradle. Phoned the last number on the list, the young man David had claimed made deliveries at all hours.

"Gideon? Should I write down 'movies about mathematics' or is that too general? If I write down 'movies about mathematics that involve robots' is that too specific?"

Gideon grinned and waited. A young man picked up.

"Yeah. Hi. My name is Jason Gideon... yeah. Yeah. David Rossi gave me your number. It's not too late? Great. Listen. Do you ever pick up stuff from Blockbuster video?"

Reid was staring at him with hopeful eyes.

"Yeah. Yeah." Gideon laughed at something that was said. "Yeah. I am taking care of a little boy. He wants... Reid? You listed 16 , 17... there are 18 movies written down here."

"Movie ideas!" Reid piped up.

"No... He doesn't know the names of any titles. Let's see... the first movie should be about mathematics and robots. Yes. Both. If possible. I told him that. Huh. You don't say..." There was another laugh.

"Does he know of one?" Reid called eagerly, a bit too loudly for comfort.

"Okay. Yeah. No... um... PG-13 I guess. Yeah. Most of the G stuff is probably too juvenile. He's 10," Another laugh. "Yes. Very bright. About a boy that's a robot? Maybe. Hold on." Gideon put the phone down for a moment.

"Reid? Would you like to watch a movie about a boy with amnesia that turns out to be a robot?"

"A robot or an android?" Reid said, grinning. Gideon shook his head and returned to the phone call.

"Yeah. He's being a smart ass. That sounds fine." There was a moment of silence. "Yeah, he might find that interesting... sure. Five sounds okay. Okay. See you in about an hour and half then. Thanks."

Gideon replaced the phone to the cradle and turned to look at Reid.

"He found one about math and a robot?"

"He is bringing over some movies that have robots in them. That's all I know. Now. If you don't mind I am going to go get a shower so I don't scare the delivery boy off."

Reid snickered at that. Gideon was already doing mental calculations. The earliest the kid would arrive was 11:30 P.M. which meant that Reid wouldn't be in bed anytime before about 2.

At least they didn't have anywhere to be tomorrow.

* * *

That's it for this chapter. Please review. Oh yeah, bonus points for anyone who figures out the movie (boy robot with amnesia)- keep in mind this story takes place in 1990 so the movie would have to be released that year or sometime sooner... I know this story deals with some pretty tough subject matter. I originally planned for this to be a much shorter fic but it ended up taking on a life of its own.


	24. Chapter 24: Fear

**Title:** Losing My Religion by Lexikal (Chapter Twenty Four)  
**Rating:** M for graphic violence against a child and language (in the first chapter, chapter 8 and chapter 10 so far)  
**Fandom:** Criminal Minds  
**Summary:** After two years away from his father and his father's violent rages, Spencer Reid, now ten, is returned home. Spencer has changed... but has William Reid?

**Author's Note:** Thanks for all the reviews, guys. This story has a lot more to it. Then I promise I will start working on the others that I left dangling. I really want to finish this now and go back to "This is My Last Resort"- the latent horror novelist in me is eager to get back to the horror stuff...

**Chapter Note:** My keyboard occasionally sticks. I will quickly edit for typos, etc, but there may still be some. I really want to finish these fics (not just this, but Blue Boy and This is My Last Resort). It's been so long since I started this that the story is actually a little disconnected in my mind. Anyway, I refer to the BAU as the BSU in this novel, because back in 1990 I believe it was called the behavioural Science Unit (Not behaviour analysis unit). I can't remember if I have referred to it as the BAU in previous chapters, and honestly, am too tired to go back and check. Enjoy the chapter, and like always, please review. Also, I can't remember if I wrote Reid with glasses in this story or not. I mean, I haven't specifically mentioned his eye glasses yet, I don't think. Anyway, the kid does have glasses. Just in case anyone is wondering. (In the show he is depicted as having glasses since the age of 4, so yeah, he has some in this fic).

* * *

Reid was up early. Gideon could lazily hear the TV through his fog of not-quite-up-yet awareness, could hear other sounds from the house. There was a cry and Gideon was up, blinking, and down the stairs two at a time. Reid was lying on the sofa, holding the remote in his hand and looking rather bashful.

"Too loud?"

"You mind?" Gideon said tiredly, allowing his heart rate to fall back to normal.

The TV lowered its volume and Reid fell back into the cushions. He looked like a chipmunk, cheeks so full and swollen they looked ready to burst. Eyes glassy and sick. They had stayed up late, watching movies. Some dumb movie about a kid who happened to be a robot, but Reid had over-analyzed the movie and managed to poke holes in nearly every second of it. Had asked a million questions. If the boy in the movie, Daryl, was mostly human except for a chip in his head, where was his mother? Was he a clone of another child? Was the chip in his head implanted when he was a fetus or after he was born? And on and on. Gideon had shrugged at most of the questions, indicating that he had no idea.

Reid had conked out around 3 in the morning, part way through a movie called "Short Circuit" which was about a robot that had developed self awareness after being struck by lightning. Gideon had slipped upstairs and fallen into bed shortly thereafter. The profiler lazily glanced at the wall clock in the hall. It was almost 1 pm. Damn. Reid was overdue for his pain meds and... At least there was food in the goddamned fridge. Gideon sighed, tested his muscles. Not dead, not yet. He looked back at the kid, smiled tiredly, wiped sleep crud from his eyes.

"No talking about PG-13 stuff today," Reid said. Gideon nodded and shut his eyes tiredly. Couldn't remember the last time he had actually had more than three hours since the kid had been with him, and even though he had had quite a stretch last night, he still felt exhausted. His head was swimming. He yawned and got up clumsily, stumbled to the kitchen for coffee.

"I want some," Reid yelled, but his voice was weary with pain. Gideon ignored the call and spooned the coffee grounds out, took out Reid's pain pills and placed them in a bowl. Poured the kid some Orange juice and grabbed a yogurt from the fridge. Came back with the food and the pills to his young charge.

"You need to eat. Here are your pills."

"I don't want to speak to a shrink, Gid-yun." He looked achy and small, too small in his own little way, to even exist. Such a little kid. Christ, a child with the eyes of Methuselah.

"Buddy, take your pills and eat something, okay?"

"You didn't respond to my veiled warning not to bring up topics relating to any of my potential past traumatic experiences..."

"Reid... The word came out as a low moan. He loved the kid as his own. He was just a little boy, but it was so hard sometimes. In his job, he had to profile psychos. Occasionally talk to adult victims. Nothing in his personal or professional life had prepared him for this.

"What do you want for breakfast? Oatmeal...or eggs?" It wasn't fair, but the kid had to swallow his food. Because his teeth has been knocked out by a psycho. Because he had had false teeth screwed into his jaw. He had to eat baby food, another indignity. Reid made a disgusted, sickly noise.

"You already brought me juice and a yogurt."

"The juice and yogurt are to help you take your pills. You have to eat a little more." Gideon had realized last night, watching the kid sleep on the sofa before heading upstairs for the night, that Reid wasn't just slim and slender anymore, he was becoming skinny. His eyes were starting to look sunken, underscored by dark bags. His face, always sculpted and fine for such a young child, was starting to look almost gaunt.

"You have to eat something more."

"I just want my pills." Reid slurred and grabbed his pain pills from the bowl. Dry swallowed them and looked up at Gideon with puppy dog eyes.

"You need to drink your juice and eat your yogurt and then have a proper breakfast. You are getting skinny."

"I don't really feel hungry anymore."

"That's not the point... Reid... you know that's not the point."

"I feel nauseated. I might throw up."

"Okay, how about this... for every, let's say 100 calories you ingest, I give you a buck. You can then spend it on whatever you want. And after you are off the pain pills I can give you an allowance or chores, but as long as you are nauseated and have no appetite, I will consider eating a chore and reward you..."

"Bribery." Reid said, and smirked. But he did look pale.

"Reid, pal, you got to eat something. So pick; eggs or oatmeal. And that juice and yogurt."

The extended silence wasn't comforting. Gideon sat down across from the boy, sighed. Nightmares. Panic attacks. Dental surgery. Crying spells. Hiding under the sink. Weight loss. The kid was a mess.

"Reid, your body needs calories. I know you feel sick. And if you throw up, that's okay."

The kid sighed and grabbed the yogurt. Peeled back the aluminum wrapper and took a few huffy bites.

"Thanks pal. So; eggs or oatmeal?"

"Oatmeal. Instant. Peaches and cream. And I don't want this orange juice. It is too acidic."

"Apple?" Gideon hedged. Reid shrugged, which Gideon took as affirmation.

Gideon went back to the kitchen and pressed his coffee, fried some eggs, put the water on for oatmeal. Just not fighting with the kid about eating was a stress off. Gideon heard splashing from the bathroom, a sound that sounded almost like a sob, then nothing. He re-attended the eggs, turned the heat off and spooned the eggs into a bowl and left it on the counter. He could hear Reid roll back and put the brakes on his chair.

Gideon brought his coffee and Reid's oatmeal out to him, smiling slightly.

"Fasting is not really that bad and helps to detoxify the body."

"Reid..." Gideon said in a warning tone. The boy took the bowl of oatmeal and began to eat. Despite his protests, he obviously liked peaches and cream oatmeal judging by how quickly the bowl was handed back to Gideon.

"After you eat, we're going to have a talk. I am not sure I want to have a talk." Reid's voice was soft and resolute. He already knew, full well, how adults operated, and Gideon was gripped with the sudden sad certainty that the boy in front of him had never had a moment of conscious innocence.

Gideon eyed the kid. He looked tired and scared and drained, much like he, himself, felt. But Reid also looked wary. It was a look Gideon was becoming increasingly familiar with.

"Is this talk anything to do with your insistence that you do not and should not speak to a psychologist?"

"What do you think?"

"Okay, kiddo. But you do have to speak to one of them. Not my policy."

"Why can't I just be a kid?" The comment wasn't directed at Jason Gideon, awesome human behavioural profiler. It was directed to the air, the ceiling, possibly to God. Gideon nodded and sipped his coffee. So much for movies.

* * *

Reid, without anything to distract him, was pacing. Not literally of course. He was confined to the damn chair. But he was hyper, uneasy, flipping through TV channels manically by 2 pm, dazed by his pain killers but not numb enough, apparently, to be calm.

"Wanna play _Go_?" Gideon asked nonchalantly, as if nothing was wrong, as if the child in front of him wasn't a bundle of anxious, angry nerves.

"No thank you." Reid slurred and flipped through a few more channels. The television stopped on a talk show and Reid watched for a moment, eyebrows rising in a combination of amusement and disdain.

"I hate the chair. I hate being like this." His voice was so low that Gideon almost missed it.

"I know."

"You have an intellectual idea. But you don't *know*." Reid flipped through half a dozen channels aimlessly, sighing, rubbing his cheek.

"Want to play Chess?"

"No."

"How about... Reid... it's our day off. What do you want to do? No heavy things to deal with today. I agree with you. No PG-13 talks, as you put them, today. Okay? We can breathe today."

Reid eyed his keeper, smiled slightly.

"Me being here, it stresses you out. You wish I wasn't here. You're regretting this, aren't you?"

Gideon's mind whirled with things to say. How could he possibly make the kid see that his stress wasn't totally Reid-related? The kid was 10 years old, and a genius, and that meant he would take almost everything personally. Genius or not, children tended to believe that they had more control over their environments and the reactions of adults than they actually had. Hell, many intelligent adults still fell into the trap of solipsism. And to be honest, Reid's situation did stress the profiler, and Gideon knew that, and he knew Reid knew that. But he knew Reid was blaming himself for everything bad in his world right now, and that wasn't fair. It wasn't right.

"I am sad you are going through all of this. I wish it wasn't like this."

"Because I am stressing you out." Reid's head lolled on his shoulders, his eyes were glassy. He moved his tongue around his mouth, licked his dried, cracked lips.

"I am glad you are in my life, Reid. You are a person worth knowing and caring about." It was simple, and it was true, and he knew Reid would see the honesty in that. Would have to see the truth in that, because it was so obvious to Gideon. Yes, Reid was a handful, simply because he was so bright and so analytical and curious. Yes, he had been through Hell, and that left scars, and that hurt to witness, that was stressful as Hell to witness and deal with and try to resolve. That caused stress, too. But...

"You can send me back if this is too much for you..." Reid trailed softly, and Gideon knew the only reason he was being this open was because he was zonked out on painkillers. He was disinhibited, but he was still speaking his truth, still airing his fears.

"You are not too much for me, okay? You're not. I don't want to send you back. What stresses me out is not you, it's your situation. It hurts and is stressful to see someone you love suffering because of someone else's actions."

Reid smiled, but it wasn't really a smile. There was so much in that so-called smile that spoke of fear and abandonment and terror of the future that the smile on his face was a grimace, something almost obscene.

"Spencer..." Gideon trailed, rubbed at his eyes tiredly. He wanted to sleep or rest or even drink a few glasses of wine in his study to chill, but more than that he wanted the kid to know, to know in his gut, how he felt. "I love you kiddo. Like a son."

There was silence then. No snappy, immediate come-back, no easy retort. Gideon kept his eyes locked on Reid's and smiled gently and Reid glanced at his lap. Was unable to keep the eye contact.

"You shouldn't." Reid said softly, scratching at his arm aimlessly.

"But I do. So deal with it."

"Why do you do this?"

Gideon sighed and shut his eyes. What exactly did that question mean? How deep did that question go? Was Reid asking why Jason Gideon, behavioural profiler for the FBI's BSU, took on the challenges of dealing with violence in general? Was he asking why he volunteered to help abused children in general? Why he had offered to foster Reid in his hour of need? Or why he cared so much about Reid?

Whatever the question, the answer to all of them was the same.

"Because I have to, Reid. Because this is who I am."

Reid nodded solemnly and seemed to accept that. Turned back to the TV and began to surf again.

* * *

"How much has he earned so far?" David Rossi's voice was amused over the line.

"Five dollars and 73 cents." Gideon said, smiling a little to himself as Rossi barked out laughter.

"You're paying this child a dollar for every 100 calories, or a penny a calorie. He really is a genius, isn't he?"

"He's sick. And he is nauseated. But it's more than that..."

"What?" Rossi's voice still had a trail of laughter in it, but was sobering up.

"He seems almost anxious about eating. As if he is doing something wrong. I don't know. It's just a gut feeling, nothing specific I can pin down."

"Mmm. Trauma leaves scars. You know this. You also don't know the full extent of the abuse he has suffered."

"Yes." Gideon's voice was soft. Reid was in his room, playing, door shut. But the idea of the kid accidentally eavesdropping still had the psychologist on edge. No matter how well intentioned, Reid would assume any talk about him was gossip and would be hurt and defensive.

"His experiences were horrific. It's amazing he is still alive, let alone talking and interacting. When you look at this situation from that angle, his anxiety level seems more than appropriate." All laughter was gone from Rossi's voice and in its place was the thoughtful, concerned intelligence Jason Gideon found so appealing about his friend and colleague.

"It's still hard to watch. In the field, most of the victims we come across are dead. If they aren't dead, we question them for a limited amount of time to gather more evidence to track down the perps, or we analyze them from afar when piecing together victimology. We don't have to pick up the pieces of their traumas." Gideon inhaled deeply, sighed.

"And we don't have a personal connection to them, either." Rossi finished.

"Exactly." Gideon took a sip of wine from his glass. It was helping, making everything a bit softer, turning reality into a warmer impressionistic version of itself.

"You know, there is nothing wrong with babysitters. I could ask around. You might be able to find a college student who is taking child psychology classes who needs to supplement their income."

"Reid would assume that meant I was tired of him. His self esteem is already in the toilet."

"Sooner or later, Spencer has to be treated as a regular kid. What's more, you can help him more efficiently if you aren't emotionally exhausted. Reid is a genius. He'll intellectually get it."

"You want to babysit?" Gideon inquired sarcastically. Heard Rossi's chuckle.

"I would, but right now I am on the trail of an obsessive compulsive with a preference for collecting human eyeballs. I am not sure Reid would benefit from my tales of enucleation. Speaking of which, the plane is about to land. Keep me up to date?"

"Sure thing. Thanks for the reassurance, David."

"Of course. And remember, babysitters equal better mental health for certain overwrought foster fathers."

"I'll consider it."

"Ask Reid. He might be okay with it. Gotta go."

"Yup."

Gideon disconnected and sat in his chair for a moment, smiling. Studied one of his ships-in-a-bottle, a replica of the Thermopylae he had built at the age of 13 sitting on a stand on his walnut desk. The construction of the composite clipper ship had cost the young Jason Gideon 2 months of his life's spare time, but she had been his first model and she was immaculate. Gideon pushed away from the desk, drank the last of his wine, and stood. He would have to remember to brush his teeth before speaking to Reid.

* * *

"I knew it! You are sick of me!" Reid sounded hurt. His eyes were huge, swimming behind his glasses.

"I'm not sick of you. Reid, think about this logically. Everyone needs time alone, right?" Gideon kept his voice soothing and warm. The voice of a good therapist.

"Yes...but..." Reid's voice trailed off. He had no logical reply, because logically he knew Gideon was right. His emotions, however, were stung and hurt and his emotions were those of a traumatized 10-year-old.

"You can help me pick her. We won't get anyone you don't approve of 100%."

Reid nodded dully. His cheeks were flushed. He picked up his Simon game again, turned it on, and began t o punch buttons.

"Reid, this is important. Please turn that off."

"It's fine. Use your best judgment. Get whomever you want."

"Reid."

"I said it's fine." Reid's voice went up a few octaves. He looked, suddenly, ready to cry.

Gideon nodded and pushed off from the side of the kid's bed. Maybe Reid was right. Maybe this really was a decision he should make himself. At any rate, every instinct in his body was telling him that right now, the boy wanted to be alone. That he was on the verge of tears and that he definitely did not want to share them with anyone else.

"Okay, I'll take care of it. I'll get someone I trust fully. You're right, Reid. You are a kid and maybe sometimes I forget that. And, when it comes to speaking to a psychologist I will use my best judgment, too. I will take care of these decisions and allow you to be a kid, buddy."

Reid was staring down at the game, his eyes swollen with unshed tears.

"I'll let you get back to your game." Gideon said softly, before slowly walking out of the room. He shut the door carefully, quietly, and waited. Almost immediately was the choked sob, the mournful, distressed, agonizing tears. Gideon grimaced, sighed, and went to his den to make some calls.

* * *

That's it for this chapter. Next chapter I am going to skip ahead a few weeks, to Reid's appointment with a shrink (for his case). The end of this chapter was about Gideon realizing that Reid is a child and Reid's tears can be seen as both fear and relief. Anyway,** please review.** I will try to have another chapter of this ready before Christmas. Or on Christmas. Stay cool guys.


	25. Chapter 25: MBTI Types

**Title:** Losing My Religion by Lexikal (Chapter Twenty Five)  
**Rating:** M for graphic violence against a child and language (in the first chapter, chapter 8 and chapter 10 so far)  
**Fandom:** Criminal Minds  
**Summary:** After two years away from his father and his father's violent rages, Spencer Reid, now ten, is returned home. Spencer has changed... but has William Reid?

**Author's Note:** Really time to get working on these stories. For those who haven't read my profile or haven't seen it, quite a long time ago I made a "fan fiction music video" for this story and posted it on facebook. The clips are from the movie "Martian Child" (I always thought that little Bobby Coleman looked a lot like how I would imagine Spencer Reid at about 10 or so (in the movie he is supposed to be 6, but was 8 in real life and I always imagined that Reid would be very small before puberty- he just seems like he would be one of those preternaturally tiny children before puberty and then, boom, would grow like a weed, tall and lanky and awkward. So yes, the Bobby Coleman character of Dennis in "Martian Child" does look very young for a 10 year old but it was the only movie I could think of to make a music video of this fan fic from, and in theory, John Cusack could look slightly like a 35 year old Jason Gideon. Anyway, this was my first ever fan fiction music video so it's not that great, but if you haven't seen it and would like to, this is the url: .com/watch?v=iKT7Rxjjy8o&feature=plcp&context=-xX

Oh, and if you haven't already seen it, "Martian Child" is an awesome movie (and might make a great last-minute Christmas present. It's based on a true story and sort of sad and angsty but has a great ending, and besides, I find John Cusack completely adorable). Moving on...

I would just like to touch on one comment I got in a review for the last chapter, about Reid being "just a kid" and Gideon needing to make the big decisions. Yes, Reid is a kid, but he is also a genius. Emotionally he is a little boy, but intellectually he is not "just a kid". Also, he is severely traumatized and Gideon wants to give him as much control over his life as possible so that he feels secure and safe. It is a tough balancing act. To simply "tell" Reid what to do and what is going to happen would probably not yield the best emotional responses from the kid. At the same time, he obviously shouldn't have to shoulder the pressure of having to make too many adult decisions. I am trying to write Gideon as a profiler who is fairly new to "raising" a child, understands Reid's trauma and fear and need for control and also wants to respect his impressive intelligence and not seem patronizing, but at the same time is trying to balance those realizations with the certainty that emotionally he is dealing with a scared, uneasy little boy healing from a major trauma. I am writing this little blurb just to let you guys know why I have written Gideon as I have and also, why and how he changes as the story progresses and he emotionally grows with Reid. Hope this makes sense.

_**This is Chapter Twenty Five. I am guessing this story is going to be about 35-40 chapters long. In case you were wondering. **_

**Chapter Note:** I am going to be jumping ahead in time, not by months but by weeks, to important events to move this story along. In this chapter, Reid sees a shrink about his abuse, and of course, is not a happy camper. Angst ahead. _Please _review. The following is a rather lengthy discussion of MBTI types in general and how and why I designated Reid, Rossi and Gideon as the types I did in this chapter. If you wish to skip the following preamble, skip ahead. You'll know where the story starts. **SKIP THE FOLLOWING TO READ CHAPTER 25.**

Also, the discussion of MBTI types, well, you might disagree with the designations I have given Reid and Gideon and Rossi but I did think about it and this is how I think they would rank. Despite his garrulous nature, I really do think Reid is an introvert (he prefers to be alone and needs to recharge and is fine in his own head, comfortable even and seems to become activated or over-stimulated when around others, which I attribute both to mild social anxiety stemming from his incredible genius, but also introversion. There is a general, incorrect consensus that all introverts are shy and taciturn. This is not true. The true mark of an introvert or an extrovert is how and where they get their energy from (introverts are drained by social exchanges no matter how much they like the people involved and need time to recharge afterwards, whereas extroverts are energized by social interactions- obviously everyone needs some alone time, but introverts also tend to get ideas from their internal world and their minds whereas the extrovert is inspired by people around him or her). I am an introvert. I am not shy and when I am interested in something I can be very, very talkative. At other times, I will be completely silent, not because I am being moody but because I thinking, daydreaming or the people around me are boring. I am not shy, I am not scared of people and I am not taciturn like Hotch (Hotch actually strikes me as an extrovert. Even though he is serious and says very little, he does seem to be more driven by the external world than by his own internal monologue). Anyway, I generally think of all the profilers on the show as N types (Intuitive, and not sensory) but of JJ and Garcia as 'S' types. Some may argue that Reid is an S (sensory type) because of his asperger's-like symptoms but I still think Reid is an N (iNtuitive type). I think Reid is more of a T (thinker, has nothing to do with intelligence, btw) type than F (Reid tends to make decisions based on logic and reasoning as opposed to letting his emotions colour his reactions) and he seems more like a P type to me than a J. (My type is INTP, incidentally, but I am nowhere as smart as Reid, obviously. However, I do share many similarities with the character, such as social awkwardness, rambling monologues when interested in a topic, interested in what others describe as minutiae and I live in my head and am fine spending days or even weeks alone... also, no fashion sense, no interest in trends, was bullied as a kid but barely noticed it because I was so internally focused, etc).

So I would rank Reid as an INTP (aka: "The Thinker", read about them here: .)

Gideon I see as an INFP (aka: "The Idealist", read about them here: .)

As for the rest of the team (for those interested) I see the others like this;

Morgan, ENFP (aka: "The Inspirer", read about them here: .)

Hotch, ENTJ (aka: The Executive read about them here: .)

JJ, ESFJ (aka: "The Caregiver", read about the type here: .)

Garcia, ESFP (aka: "The Performer", read about the type here: .)

Prentiss, ENTP (aka: "The Visionary", read about the type here: .) and last but not least...

Rossi, INTJ (aka: "The Scientist", read about the type here: .)

There are 16 basic types, and I realize that none of the characters above have the same type (as far as I am concerned). I believe this was an intentional strategy developed by the show's writers and creators to create unique characters thoroughly different from one another. In reality, a group of profilers would probably have a few members with the same type. If you don't know your MBTI type there are online tests, but you can also sort through the 16 types and read the descriptions. Here is a link to a free online MBTI "test": .com/type_

I have found others online which ask multiple questions and are probably more "accurate". However, personality sorting is not a science and ultimately it is up to you to decide if you fit with a type or not. Also, many people do not fit strongly into one category or another (for instance, they are not strongly introverted or extroverted but somewhere in the middle- I am strongly INTP for all factors, but for others, you may be on the fence of several different types.

**STORY STARTS DIRECTLY BELOW:**

* * *

"_**To conquer fear is the beginning of wisdom." ~Bertrand Russell**_

Reid had spent over an hour getting dressed. He had emotionally strong-armed his foster father into buying him a pair of beige chinos, a dress shirt, suit jacket, tie patterned with differential equations and an adorable little pair of Gucci penny loafers. The bill had been considerable but Reid had decided after trying out his clothing that a baseball cap did not suit the look and had eventually selected an ironically expensive brown poor boy's hat to complete the look. God forbid anyone, let alone a shrink, see his head. He looked like a midget college professor.

"You know, he would have been fine to see you in sweats and a t-shirt." Gideon said honestly, trying to suppress a smirk as Reid rolled himself towards the dining table.

"We should have got the cufflinks..." Reid responded seriously.

Gideon held his tongue. Reid had seen a pair of gold cufflinks designed to look like matching pairs of C3P0's head. Gideon might have actually purchased them if they hadn't cost 500$.

"You're fine without the cufflinks."

"Where is my coffee? You said I could have some coffee? I ate that oatmeal..."

"Reid, relax, I'll get you some coffee."

"Black, 2 sugars." The kid quipped nonchalantly as if he was speaking to a barista and not his foster father. Gideon let it slide. In a little under 2 hours the kid would be sitting in a shrink's office, potentially discussing some of the most painful events of his life.

"Right away, sir. Will you be paying with cash today?" Gideon said cheekily, smiling broadly when Reid rolled his eyes.

It had been 2 weeks since Gideon had broached the subject of getting Reid a babysitter and had told the kid that he would select a psychiatrist. He had taken the kid out of the decision making process for the most part, and Reid, surprisingly, had seemed to settle down a bit. He had cried for about an hour in his room after the discussion, but whether from fear or relief, Gideon wasn't sure. He had been sulky and sullen for days, but also, Gideon was sure, less anxious overall. Gideon still hadn't got the kid a sitter, but he had made the first appointment to have Reid evaluated by a child psychiatrist. The shrink was a good guy, someone who had done work for the FBI by interviewing child victims of extreme violence. He had testified many times and was considered an expert in the field of understanding violence and its impact on children and adolescents.

When Gideon had told his young charge that the shrink he had selected worked, occasionally, for the FBI and specialized in treating child victims of violence, Reid had seemed both fascinated and extremely self-conscious. He still had balked at the idea of going, and had needed constant reassurance that he didn't have to say anything he didn't want and could ask to take a break whenever he wanted. Gideon had scheduled the first appointment 10 days earlier and in those ten days Reid had alternated between anger and fear and dull apathy and anxiety that he would be seen as "crazy and locked away".

His cheeks were also less swollen and he was on less pain medication. He'd had a few nightmares but no panic attacks, no crying spells, nothing major. For which Gideon was overwhelmingly glad.

He'd had his "interview" clothes for 5 days now and had tried them on several times. But today was go-day and Reid was understandably jittery.

"Gideon. I need my coffee." Reid said sternly and Gideon blinked, realized he had zoned out for a moment.

"Right. I guess I need some too."

"We have to be there in..." Reid glanced down at his new Seiko watch. "We have to be there in 104 minutes and 53 seconds. And the drive is 45 minutes approximately. We need about 15 minutes to park, enter, check in with reception and collect our thoughts. We'll need 20 minutes after our coffee to brush our teeth, pee, gargle, get out to the car... which means, from right this second we only have about 24 minutes to diffuse anxiety and drink coffee."

"Reid, I think you are overestimating how long it takes to get in and out of the car."

"Gideon, seriously, this is important."

"Yes. I know it is. I will get your coffee."

* * *

Reid, normally so animated and garrulous was eerily silent during the drive. He was playing with a new toy called "Pocket Repeat" which was similar, but smaller, to his Simon game. A little white cube with four coloured lights in each of the corners. The lights would blink in patterns, emitting different pitched beeps and the job of the player, much like in Simon, was to repeat the pattern. Hence the name, Pocket Repeat. Gideon had picked it up for Reid at Radio Shack for 5 bucks. The longer he cared for Reid the more certain he was becoming that Spencer Reid could not possibly own too many puzzles, games, books or art supplies.

Gideon was half-listening to Reid's performance with the game. So far the kid seemed to have repeated the pattern for at least 50 lights. They had been driving 15 minutes.

Before leaving, Gideon had asked Reid if he wanted to bring his plush dinosaur, Jason, along with him, to which Reid had replied: "I think a ten year old carrying around a generic plush sauropod in lieu of a literal security blanket would raise some questions about said 10-year-old's emotional health." Gideon hadn't pressed the issue but had grabbed the dinosaur and stuffed it into his briefcase along with the tape of Reid's dissociated disclosure of sexual abuse. He felt slightly guilty about the tape. He still hadn't really broached the subject with Reid to his satisfaction and the kid most definitely did not know he had been taped. When Reid found out- and no doubt he would eventually find out _somehow_- would he view this as an act of concern or of dishonesty?

Gideon stopped at a red light and checked the time. They had to be there for their 1:00 appointment in 59 minutes and they still had another 30 minutes or more to drive. God bless him, the kid had been right to insist on leaving lots of time for car entry and exit transitions.

"So..." Gideon started hesitantly, driving forward as the light hit green. "We will talk together at first. He will ask you basic, no-pressure questions. Remember, this guy is a good guy, really professional."

"Richard David Martin, MD, PhD...holder of multiple PhD's, actually. I wonder how his knowledge of Physics helps him understand human behaviour?"

"The man is very bright. I think you will be able to relate to him."

There was a loud buzz which indicated that Reid had failed to repeat the pattern on his pocket repeat in time.

"What is his Myers-Brigg Personality Indicator type?"

"What?"

"His MBTI designation? Myers-Brigg Type Indicator? The famous psychometric questionnaire proposed by Carl Jung in 1921 and designed by Katharine Cook Briggs and her daughter Isabel Briggs Myers during the second world war as a tool originally designed to assist women in entering industrial workforces tailored to their personality preferences to help optimize work efficiency. The first version of the test being published in 1962? Surely..."

"I know what the MBTI is, Reid. I don't know what his type is."

"Well, let's break it down. You are a profiler and I am bright. You obviously know my type."

Reid was rambling, intellectualizing. It was a mode of behaviour Gideon had come to expect from the boy when he was stressed and worried and needed to feel in control.

"Um, actually, I don't know your type. What is it?"

"Guess." Reid said simply, but his voice was almost playful, which Gideon saw as a good sign.

"Um...okay...I...IS...IST...J. ISTJ?" Gideon hedged, knowing that Reid behaved in many asperger's type behaviours, and also knowing that he had deliberately chosen the wrong type to give the boy an opportunity to vent his growing anxiety by explaining about types.

Reid made the sound effect of a loud buzzing noise, not unlike the sound heard by Jeopardy contestants who answer a question incorrectly.

"Wrong. I am an INTP. I can't believe you got that wrong. Do you know your type?"

"I do."

"Can I guess?" Reid said speedily. With each minute that passed the kid seemed to be talking a bit quicker. His voice was tremulous, shaky with adrenaline and he was trying oh-so-hard to hold everything together and seem confident.

"Sure," Gideon invited, warmly.

"Um...I think you are an INFP. Am I close?"

"Nailed it." Gideon said, chuckling a little. "I can see you as an INTP, now that I think about it..."

"Good. Because that is what I am. Do you know Rossi's type?"

"I know David's type, yes. Let me guess. You want to try and guess?"

"He_ has_ to be an INTJ. He is an introvert, intuitive, he is definitely more of a thinking than feeling type and he is too confident in his assessments to be a P type like me."

"Right again. You're good at this Reid."

"You don't know what type Dr. Martin is?" Reid inquired, almost in a whine.

"Sorry. No. It was never of pressing importance. Why are you so focused on it?"

"Knowing a person's type can be very helpful in deciding how to approach them."

"Reid..." Gideon let out a weary sigh. "He doesn't want you to put on a front. He is there to get to know you, not some mask you are wearing."

"If he is good at his job, wearing a mask won't matter." Reid said quickly, almost confidently. "I am going to assume he is an extrovert. Most psychiatrists are. They deal with people and are energized by people as a general rule. It's not a hard and fast rule, but also, 70% of the population is extroverted so the odds are in that favour. I am, after all, from Vegas. If he is as good at his job as you claim, he is probably an Intuitive type. Sensing types would miss too much to be good at forensic psychiatry. I have no idea whether he is an F type or T type, but I am leaning towards T, just based on some of the PhDs he has earned. Most physicists are T types and he has a PhD in physics as well as psychiatry so there's that. And, it's not a hard and fast rule but most shrinks tend to be J types. They have to assign diagnoses with confidence and most P types would not feel secure labelling people permanently and using said diagnoses to assign psychotropic drugs. So... I am guessing ENTJ. ENTJs are not normally the type I would assign to most psychiatrists, but a shrink with multiple PhDs who doesn't do therapy but does do assessments and is an expert court witness and studied law? Yeah. That makes sense."

"Reid, calm down."

"ENTPs are natural leaders who are decisive and dislike inefficiency and incompetence."

"Reid, you may be right no his type. But you are far from incompetent and he is not there to judge you."

"Do you think I am right in my initial assessment?"

This elicited another smirk from Gideon. The kid was so nervous, trying so hard to make a good impression, to appear competent and mature and precocious and intelligent. The truly ironic part was that Reid was naturally mature and competent and precocious and intelligent and his growing anxiety was actually making him seem more vulnerable and self-conscious than he really was.

"I think your assessment might be spot-on, kiddo. You'll be fine. He is a very intelligent man, and yes, he is generally confident, but he is also extremely bright."

"Even William James Sidis made mistakes..." Reid drawled, somewhat cryptically. Gideon had heard the name before, but for the life of him couldn't pin it. He glanced at his watch. They still had approximately 25 minutes of driving ahead, so the profiler decided to take the plunge, for Reid's sake.

"Reid? I'm a little rusty. The name sounds familiar but who, exactly, is William James Sidis?" Gideon kept his tone light and cheerful, as if he was genuinely interested in the answer. Waited.

Gideon heard the sharp, surprised intake of breath that denoted that the ten year old in the backseat was utterly flabbergasted with his foster father's abysmal ignorance and then Reid began to ramble, sounded disconcertingly like a human encyclopaedia.

* * *

Gideon pulled into one of the many free parking spaces at the forensic sciences building off the university hospital and killed the engine. They had 35 minutes to spare. Giving 10 minutes for getting Reid in his chair, wheeling him up and into the building, taking the elevator and checking in left 25 minutes to use the bathroom, talk and build up anxiety.

The forensic sciences building was a squat, 5 storey structure made of grey brick with wide, open windows and an expansive courtyard. Reid craned his face to the window and peered out anxiously.

"We're here." Gideon announced unnecessarily. Saw Reid nod silently out of the corner of his eye.

"You ready?"

"Um... yeah. I think so." The kid's voice, so chatty and enthusiastic while describing the late William James Sidis had fallen to a forlorn whisper.

"It will be fine, buddy. Remember, he is on your side. We'll all meet together at first, talk, get to know each other. He's a good guy and he's on your side."

"Yeah..." Reid agreed. Gideon did a double check. Reid was looking fairly pale. Not especially so, but definitely whiter than usual. And he was usually pretty ghostly.

"After, remember what I said. After, if you are up to, we can go out for lunch and then hit Toys R Us, get you one of those Nintendos? And some games?"

"And books." Reid announced listlessly.

"Sure thing. We can hit the library too."

"And I don't have to say anything I don't want to?"

"Right. Remember what we discussed? What do you say if you feel overwhelmed or feel unable to answer something honestly? Instead of lying?"

"I don't feel comfortable answering that and instead of lying I am simply unable to respond to your inquiry at this time." Reid said robotically. Gideon sighed, leaned over, but a hand on the boy's shoulder. It was trembling slightly.

"Right. Remember, you are in control. With kids they usually don't talk about sensitive issues for very long, usually not longer than 30 minutes. And you'll probably get a break after the first 15 minutes."

"I only have to see him this once, right?" Reid said, gulping audibly.

"Well, today is important. Depending on several factors he may want to speak to you again. But don't worry about that now." Gideon tightened his hold on the boy's shoulder, tried to will some of his own confidence and love for the kid into him with that simple touch. Reid grabbed his Pocket Repeat off the seat and handed it to his foster father.

"Could you put this in your brief case, please?"

"Yes. Sure. But don't you want to leave it in the car?" Gideon asked gently.

"I...I don't know. I might need it." So much for not needing security items.

"No problem, buddy. What do you say we get this show on the road?"

"I think it's funny how you overuse English idioms when you're trying to placate me." Reid said tremulously, voice barely audible.

"What country's idioms would you like me to use?" Gideon retorted gently, eyes glistening with compassion. That got a tiny smile from the kid. Gideon smiled back and then, impulsively, leaned over and hugged the child in front of him. Spencer Reid stiffened in his arms for a moment before finally relaxing a little bit. He was still pretty rigid, but no longer felt like a cord of wood. Gideon sat back and sighed, wiped his eyes.

"Why...why did you just hug me?" Reid ventured uncertainly.

"Because I love you, kiddo."

"I...my chair is in the trunk of the car." Reid announced, looking both embarrassed and wistful. Something twisted in Gideon's stomach, a sad, painful realization that the boy craved love, but at the same time, was unused to it and overwhelmed by it.

"Right." Gideon said, and opened the door with the a click. He stood outside in the warm August air for a moment and shut his eyes. Said a silent prayer.

_Dear God, I know I don't pray to you often or even with any real faith. But if you do exist, please look out for this little boy today. Give him courage. Give him strength. Let him know he is loved. Whatever happens Today, let him know he is loved._

* * *

Chapter 26 will be posted as quickly as possible. I want to get to at least Chapter 30 before Christmas. That is a big challenge for me as I am out of practice with writing, but I have a few other large multi-chaps to finish beside this one and I want to start working on my own independent writing in the New Year so this is great practice. Of course, this stuff is more stream of consciousness writing than my "personal" novel writing, but the feedback is great and writing quickly and without abandon is a good way of getting into the habit of putting your thoughts down on paper (er...a screen) and developing stamina for writing. Oh yeah, **_please_ review**. Reviews are like Christmas presents to me. If you read this and liked it, please take a few seconds to tell me. If you didn't like it, please tell me. If you were indifferent... you get the idea.


	26. Chapter 26: Martin

**Title:** Losing My Religion by Lexikal (Chapter Twenty Six)  
**Rating:** M for graphic violence against a child and language (in the first chapter, chapter 8 and chapter 10 so far)  
**Fandom:** Criminal Minds  
**Summary:** After two years away from his father and his father's violent rages, Spencer Reid, now ten, is returned home. Spencer has changed... but has William Reid?

**Author's Note: **The Christmas Spirit has gripped me, I guess. Either that or I am on a writing streak. Here is Chapter 26. Angst ahead.

**Chapter Note:** Like always, please review. I write faster when I get reviews (does that count as blackmail?) Oh yeah, in 1990, from what I can tell Asperger's syndrome wasn't yet a DSM diagnosis but the phrase was in use. For those of you interested in seeing some of the paintings in Richard Martin's office, here is a list. I highly recommend coming back and checking these out after reading the chapter if you are curious. I think these are beautiful paintings.

Magritte painting of "girl eating a bird" (The Pleasure): www dot wikipaintings dot org/en/rene-magritte/young-girl-eating-a-bird-the-pleasure-1927

Golconda by Rene Magritte: www dot wikipaintings dot org/en/rene-magritte#supersized-featured-211359

The False Mirror by Rene Magritte: www dot wikipaintings dot org/en/rene-magritte#supersized-featured-211512

Tiger in a Tropical Storm by Henri Rousseau: www dot henrirousseau dot org/Surprise! Dot html

Sleeping Gypsy by Henri Rousseau: www dot henrirousseau dot org/Sleeping-Gypsy dot html

Dhotel nuance d'abricot by Jean Dubuffet: www dot artchive dot com/artchive/D/dubuffet/dhotel dot jpg dot html

Willem De Kooning's Woman: www dot precisionnutrition dot com/wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2008/12/willem_de_kooning-300x190 dot jpg

Someone (thanks _Nympha Fluminis_!) also told me that if I don't write out "dots" in links, they will be removed, so here is the "link" for the fan fiction music video for this story (first fan fic vid I ever made so it's not as polished as it would be if I made it *now*): www dot youtube dot com/watch?v=iKT7Rxjjy8o&feature=plcp&context=-xX

**STORY BELOW!**

* * *

"_**If you tell the truth you don't have to remember anything." ~Mark Twain**_

They had checked in with the receptionist and Reid had used the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face, dried his face with a paper towel, had a glass of water from the water cooler and used the bathroom again. He had played with his pocket repeat for about a minute before turning it off and handing it back to Gideon. His fingers were dancing as if he was playing an invisible piano, when they weren't plucking at his tie or collar or the hem of his cuffs.

"We should have got the cufflinks." He admonished more than once. To which Gideon smiled reassuringly.

"So, what video games do you want to get for your Nintendo later?"

"Bribery is not going to make me less anxious right now, Gideon."

Gideon stopped, and played the last comment through his mind. He wasn't sure when it happened but Reid had stopped calling him "Gid-yun" and had started to enunciate his name extremely carefully.

"Yes, well, I am sort of excited about this Nintendo thing."

"Technically, we will be getting the new Super Nintendo, won't we?"

"What's the difference?"

"Well, the original Nintendo is an 8 bit video game system, from what I have heard, that was released in North America in 1985. The Super Nintendo, or SNES, was recently released and is a 16 bit system. I suppose it depends on the price and what games are available. I want to get a chess game."

"You already have an electronic chess game."

"Yes, well... whichever system has more puzzle games. I am not really interested in shoot-em-up or racing games but puzzle games like Tetris look okay, although I think Tetris could become monotonous fairly quickly. Because the SNES is such a new system, we might want to go with the original Nintendo, simply because we will have a larger game selection. So I retract my earlier statement where I tacitly endorsed the SNES over the NES and..."

Yup. The kid was nervous as Hell. He was speaking more like Data from_ Star Trek: The Next Generation _than usual.

"I heard of a game called _Battle Chess_ where the chess pieces come to life, so to speak, and capture each other in a small animation when you play against the computer. I am not sure if it is a 1 or 2 player game, but if it is 2 player you would play with me and..."

"Spencer Reid?" A soft, intelligent voice said clearly, jolting the kid out of his monologue. Reid ripped his head around anxiously and nodded. Dr. Richard Martin was a tall, thin man dressed in chinos much like Reid's and an argyle sweater in earth tones over top of a dress shirt. His eyes were warm and bright and the color of root beer, his voice soft and rich as cognac. Richard Martin quickly closed the space between them and extended his hand. Reid stared at the man's hand for a moment before completing the handshake.

"Hi. Nice to meet you. I am Dr. Richard Martin, but you may call me Richard if you like."

"Which Moniker do you prefer?" Reid asked shyly, shooting a nervous look to Gideon. Gideon smiled warmly and nodded to Reid. _It is okay, pal._

"Richard is fine. I don't feel as old when kids call me Richard."

"You don't look old. How old are you?"

"I am 37, actually. And you are... 10 years old?"

"Yes. Chronologically ten years of age." Reid agreed, nodding, and his response elicited a warm smile from the doctor. "Jason has told me quite a bit about you. He told me you were very bright, but most parents and guardians tend to think their kids are bright. However, I can see now he was accurate in his assessment. So... what do you say we retire to my office?"

"Jason is coming, too, right?" Reid said quickly, again glancing back at his guardian. Richard Martin glanced over at Jason Gideon, made eye contact and saw Gideon's subtle nod. The shrink smiled down at Reid and nodded.

"Yes, for sure. For the first little bit Jason is more than welcome to sit in with us."

"Okay." Reid said shyly, and began to wheel himself towards the doctor. Gideon got up, grabbed his briefcase, and followed the pair towards the man's office.

* * *

Richard Martin's "office" was large and airy with huge windows overlooking a courtyard full of trees bursting with the rich greens of late summer. Hardwood floors were covered in bright rugs designed to appeal to children. The rugs were colourful and patterned without appearing juvenile. The walls were lined with book cases full of books, knick knacks, toys and games. A mobile hung from the ceiling, what looked like hundreds of multi-coloured origami cranes spinning lazily above their heads. The wall space was decorated with framed photos of kids and art work- both the art work of children and prints of famous artists. There were some bean bag chairs, a leather couch with ottomans, a large desk in the corner with an odd assortment of puzzles and games and curios prominently displayed. Gideon also knew that there was a dollhouse and dolls and a humungous panda almost 6 feet high in the closet behind the desk. Martin changed his office, somewhat, between patients, so that little children felt sheltered and protected, older children were interested and engaged and adolescents felt like they were being treated as equals and not as "kids". Gideon had been in the man's office quite a few times and could see that it was in its standard 13-17 year old "mode".

"You like Rene Magritte?" Reid said softly, pointing to a framed image on the wall of a girl in a brown dress eating a bird. The white lace collar of the child's dress was stained with bright red blood.

"I'm impressed. Most people don't realize that is Magritte, even if they are relatively familiar with his work. It is not one of his better known pieces like _Golconda_ or _The False Mirror_."

"Why did you select it for your office? Isn't the subject matter a little gruesome?" Reid's voice was pensive and wary, but his eyes never left the painting. He obviously had seen it before in order to know who had created it, but he seemed mesmerized.

"Well, I find it interesting to look at. Both innocent and primal at the same time."

"Innocent?"

"Well, the child only appears violent because she is dressed in clothes and looks relatively clean and healthy. But I think Magritte was trying to convey the message that, no matter how we dress ourselves up, we really are all just animals and we all have primal instincts."

"I guess..." Reid said slowly, shooting Gideon a questioning glance.

"Does the painting disturb you?" Martin asked nonchalantly, walking up to it and appearing to study it much as Reid was.

"No. Nah. I just... you deal with child and adolescent trauma victims. So to have a painting depicting death or blood or violence of any sort...I just assumed..."

"You think it's in bad taste?" Martin asked earnestly, tilting the painting to make it even.

"No. No. Nevermind..." Reid was blushing now, scarlet. He rolled his chair to another painting.

"Henri Rousseau's_ Tiger in a Tropical Storm_." Reid said, glancing over at the shrink for confirmation.

"Yes. Right. I love his use of colours." Martin said.

"And another Rousseau. _Sleeping Gypsy_. This one is well known." Reid said softly, gazing up at the framed print.

"I really like the atmosphere of that one, even if it is seen everywhere, from cartoons to college dorm room posters. When I look at this painting, I can almost smell the desert, and hear the lion breathing as it stands over the woman. I can imagine the royal blue sky of early evening and even imagine the glint of the stars just starting to show for the evening. I can even smell the sand, and maybe the smell of the lion, of the lions' fur and breath and remnants of previous kills, the smell of the woman and maybe the distant smell of hyacinths."

Reid was silent, absorbing. Finally nodded.

"Hyacinth is native to the Mediterranean, north-east Iran and Turkmenistan. The painting depicts a lion, and wild lions only live in sub-saharan Africa and some parts of Asia." Reid, Gideon knew, was talking more to center and ground himself than to show off. The Mediterranean, Iran and Turkmenistan were parts of Asia, Africa and Europe.

"Iran is part of Asia. So is Turkmenistan. The Mediterranean basin covers Europe, Africa and Asia. At any rate, the Hyacinth can grow in places besides the locales you named. And it is a painting so I like to think the rules of our reality don't necessarily apply." Richard Martin's voice was as confident as Reid's.

"I _know_. I was thinking maybe the painting is supposed to be in Persia. That could be an Asiatic lion, now extinct? I just think it was odd you mentioned Hyacinth. Plus, you could have been referring to the mineral or one of numerous Saints or..." More babbling that didn't really make sense or pertain to anything in particular.

Martin smiled anyway, apparently quite entertained by Reid's formidable knowledge.

"Let me ask you something Spencer... do you prefer Spencer or Reid?"

"Whichever."

"Okay, Spencer it is. Do you have an eidetic memory?"

"Yes."

"Cool. Me too."

Reid blinked and glanced over at Gideon, who nodded confirmation.

Reid, apparently not impressed with the psychiatrist's admission, wheeled himself on to another painting.

"I am not familiar with this painting. Is it a Jean Dubuffet? It looks a little bit like his painting _Dhotel nuance d'abricot_ but it also has a De Kooning feeling to it, too. Sort of like his painting _Woman_ from 1953-1954. Who did it?"

Gideon, resting against the wall and watching his foster son and colleague exchange verbal information was like watching a figurative boxing match for nerds. Despite the underlying reasons for Reid being in the room, Gideon was finding it hard not to chuckle. So far the kid was throwing most of the mental punches but he knew Martin was bright. Not as bright as Reid, but what he lacked in sheer, alien intelligence he made up for in life experience and confidence.

"Actually, that was a gift from a boy I knew." Martin said softly. Gideon instantly noticed, and appreciated, the way Martin had refrained from referring to said boy as a "patient".

"He made you that? _Why_? Did you ask him to?" Reid spoke quickly, and Gideon could almost see his mental shields rising and the unspoken warning: _You better not expect me to draw you any stupid pictures._

"Well, he was a high functioning autist. He witnessed both of his parents killed and he wanted to express to me how he felt at the time. I am still not sure I understand how he felt, but the production of the piece was important to him, and I like the roughness of it. The urgency of it."

"He couldn't speak?" Reid inquired thoughtfully, frowning as he studied the work of some autistic boy he would never know.

"He could speak. Quite eloquently in fact, but he preferred to communicate through visuals. He said he found spoken language inherently imprecise."

"Language_ is_ inherently imprecise, because we all have a subjective reference of word definition," Reid said softly, still staring at the art work. "What did he use? Oils and pastels?"

"Yes. And charcoal and pencil, as well. On water colour paper."

"How old was he... when he saw his parents killed?" Reid's eyes were thoughtful, a crease forming between his brows. Something in the piece had grabbed him like a terrier going after a bone.

"He was perhaps a few months older than you? Ten and a half or so." Martin said thoughtfully, walking over to the painting, to Reid.

"And when he painted...when he made this? How old was he then?" Reid pressed, one small hand trailing an inch above the framed painting as if trying to capture the original lines of the work.

"He made that in my office three days after the murders."

"So...a ten year old autist with an obviously adequate, if not superior, grasp of verbal language made this for you. A ten year old autistic boy who saw his parents murdered." Reid trailed, tone of voice unreadable.

"Yes. That's right."

"By autistic... did this boy...did he have...let's just say...would Hans Asperger have at one time referred to him as an autistic psychopath?" Reid was being intentionally cryptic, Gideon knew. He also knew that at some level his use of the antiquated term had been deliberate.

"Yes. When the syndrome is added officially to the ICD or DSM 4, whichever comes first, Asperger's Syndrome will almost certainly be one of his diagnoses." Martin confirmed, emphasizing the words _Asperger's Syndrome_. "No one on the autistic spectrum is referred to as an autistic psychopath any longer."

"Interesting," Reid said blandly, ignoring the shrink's last sentence.

"And obviously he is quite bright. IQ of...say, at least 150 or so." Reid continued. His voice was no longer as speedy and shaky as it had been just a few minutes it ago, but determined and confident. The voice of a chess player two moves away from putting his opponent into check.

"Yes."

"This room is full of fine art and for lack of a better term...outsider art from your patients... and 3-dimensional puzzles. You left a Ninja Turtle action figure on your desk, behind that cheap phrenology bust." Reid sounded pleased with himself. "There are also places on the walls that are lighter, where other, larger framed works have recently hung. Did you redecorate this room for my benefit?" _Check._

Richard Martin did not answer that in words. Just laughed happily. Gideon, still leaning against the wall, smirked to himself.

"You have a ceramic phrenology bust on your desk." Reid mentioned again when the shrink failed to answer his question, and adjusted his glasses. "You do know phrenology is complete hokum?"

"Of course. I have that as a paper weight. An ironic paper weight."

Reid wheeled his chair over to the man's desk and began to pick up each object in turn, giving a brief description of everything as he did.

"Spencer, do you think it's okay if Jason hangs out in the lounge while we talk now? He can stay for a bit longer if you want, but..."

Reid instantly but down a Chinese puzzle box he had been fiddling with and looked over at Gideon anxiously.

"But...we are going to talk _now_?"

"We have been talking for a while now. Not so bad, is it?" Martin's voice was calm and soothing and completely devoid of the condescending tone that so many adults seemed to use with kids when they thought the kid in question was being unreasonable or over-sensitive. Gideon was glad that Richard Martin had agreed to see them.

"No... I guess not. But when he leaves, then you are going to ask me questions about what happened to me with... back at home. And that will be awkward, and I might not want to answer them. Just so you know in advance." Reid set his jaw.

"That's fine. And I am not going to just shoot questions at you like a lawyer. You'll control the conversation. This isn't an interrogation."

"If I control the conversation, then why am I here? I don't want to have a conversation about the past, _period_..."

"Well, we can talk about you not wanting to talk about the past if you want."

"I don't want to talk about that, either. By definition, that line of inquiry still pertains to the past." Reid's voice was both petulant and uncertain, as if afraid that the new man in front of him might suddenly react... badly. There was also a trace of curiosity in the young genius's voice, something that spoke to a grave desire to unburden himself to someone intelligent, someone who would not look down on him or judge him, would not see him as a burden because he was emotionally connected to him.

"What would you like to talk about?" It wasn't a question.

"I...Gideon has told you about my past. Isn't that enough? We don't ever have to talk about it, do we?" Reid's words were hurried, starting to garble together. Martin and Gideon exchanged a knowing look.

"We'll only discuss what you're comfortable discussing."

"Then we _never_ discuss the past." Reid ordered. Gone was the momentary confidence and in its place the anxious, rambling tone of a scared, small child.

"What about the past is so uncomfortable for you?" Martin asked gently, walking over to his desk and picking up what looked like a stress ball.

Reid was silent for a moment. Finally, in a low voice, came the response: "Nice try."

Richard Martin laughed again, a sympathetic gentle laugh.

"See? You know all my tricks. So, what do you say? We talk alone for a bit?"

"We have to, don't we?"

"Well, as far as the courts are concerned... I have to be able to say I saw you on your own for my assessment of your behaviour to have any merit."

"Why do you have to assess _my_ behaviour?" Reid sounded petulant. "There is nothing wrong with _me_. _I _didn't do anything wrong. Why don't you assess..." Reid trailed and buried his face in one of his hands. Exhaled slowly.

Gideon started to move toward the kid to reassure him but Martin raised a hand. The message was clear: _Don't. Don't comfort him right now_. Gideon nodded and stepped back.

"Nobody thinks you did anything wrong. You know what happened to you. The doctors, the police, Jason, are all in agreement. I am inclined to believe them, however, that would be pretty sloppy of me. I generally like to come to my own conclusions."

"You don't believe my file." Reid said flatly, as if he expected the severity of his injuries to be disbelieved. He lifted his head from his hand and wiped at his eyes. He had obviously been beaten to within an inch of his life, but he still, obviously, doubted that anyone would believe he had been beaten. Gideon knew it was a common reaction. The abuse victim often feared they would be ridiculed or shamed or blamed or flat-out disbelieved, even when the evidence was substantial.

"I just want to get to know you. So what do you say? If you get upset, I can go get Jason from the waiting room. Deal?"

Reid sighed miserably. Finally nodded his head.

Martin smiled gently and escorted Gideon back to the waiting room.

* * *

"So... before we start, can I get you something to drink?" Martin asked as he came back into the room, carefully shutting the door. He moved slowly towards the couch and sat down, motioned for Reid to come and join him. Reid wheeled himself backwards until he was facing the man. Between them was an oak coffee table, scarred and flecked with paint and what looked like crayon smudges. The juvenile ghosts of patients past were beginning to make themselves known.

"Um...coffee if you have it. Strong. Black. 2 sugars."

"Coffee. Hmm." Martin was silent for a moment, corners of his mouth turning up in a rueful smile. "You're a 10 year old genius whose IQ hit the ceiling on the Stanford Binet and the WISC at the age of 6. You're in the 11th grade. Or ready to enter the 11th grade. You drink coffee instead of soda pop or juice or chocolate milk and have substantial knowledge of fine art, psychology and my guess is any subject that you find even remotely interesting."

"What's your point?" Reid asked guardedly when it was clear the man before him had finished talking.

"Nothing, really. Most people don't usually start drinking coffee until they need to burn the candle at both ends. I've known teens in high school who guzzled the stuff. College kids. Twenty-somethings in med school."

"It tastes good. Colas and chocolate milk both contain caffeine too. And I _am_ in high school." Reid volleyed back. Already he was regretting Gideon's absence. He couldn't make up his mind if he found the man across from him disturbing and scary or calming and reassuring.

"Maybe that was my point. You have had to grow up, from the little bit I can tell, really quickly." It wasn't a question, just a comment that hung in the room like a spectre and made Reid want to squirm. The boy shrugged and pulled at the cuff of his dress shirt. He wished Gideon had purchased the cufflinks.

Finally Reid nodded. Give the guy what he wanted to hear. Get this over with.

"I suppose. Sort of goes hand in hand with..." Reid trailed. No, not a good idea. Yes or no answers only. No extra information, nothing offered. Nobody could hurt him if he just responded in yeses and nos.

"Goes hand in hand with what, Spencer?" Martin prodded when it was clear Reid had trailed off.

"With being smart." Reid said quickly, hoping the man would accept that and move on. And get him his damn coffee already.

As if reading his mind, Richard Martin nodded and chuckled. "Okay. Well. I have to agree there. I was drinking coffee pretty early, too. Not as young as you, but young enough. You want any snacks? We have crackers, cookies, licorice all-sorts."

"I can't." Reid said petulantly before realizing he had already fallen into a trap.

"Can't have a snack?" Martin asked innocently, as if he had misheard the kid.

"That's right." Reid said softly, wishing this interview was over. He glanced down at his watch. Gideon had been in the room with him for a little over 11 minutes. He had been alone with the psychiatrist for 3 minutes, bringing the grand total assessment time to 15 minutes. And that 11 minutes was just the preliminary niceties. They hadn't gotten into the deep water yet. _Shit._

"Why can't you have a snack?"

"I mean... I could have a snack if I wanted to. I just don't want one."

"But you said you couldn't have one. Not that you didn't care for one." Martin corrected gently.

"Not cookies or crackers or licorice, I can't have those."

"Why not?"

Reid sighed tiredly. This was going to be a long day.

"Because those foods involve chewing and I can't eat anything that involves chewing or putting any significant amount of pressure on my teeth or jaw, because my dental implants are still healing and I need to eat only mushy, soft food or liquids until my jaw bone strengthens around the little metal buds so that my permanent teeth can be screwed in._ That's_ why."

"Okay. Fair enough." Martin didn't seem to notice Reid's speedy tone of voice, or the weariness in his comments. Reid knew that just because the man acted as if he were oblivious didn't mean he was. Far from it.

"Coffee. Strong. Black. 2 sugars. Is that right?" Martin asked cheerfully as he padded back towards the door.

Reid nodded tiredly, chewed at his lower lip.

"Okay. I'll be back in a few minutes."

Reid didn't respond to that. _What was this guy's angle, anyway?_

* * *

More coming soon. It is taking longer to write the interaction with Reid's shrink than I had initially considered. Hard to find the right balance of innocence, intelligence, confidence, fearfully guarded responses and faith in Reid and compassion, tenacity, intelligence and wisdom in the shrink. Anyway._ Please_ review. PLEASE. Thanks.


	27. Chapter 27: Neglect

**Title:** Losing My Religion by Lexikal (Chapter Twenty Seven)  
**Rating:** M for graphic violence against a child and language (in the first chapter, chapter 8 and chapter 10 so far)  
**Fandom:** Criminal Minds  
**Summary:** After two years away from his father and his father's violent rages, Spencer Reid, now ten, is returned home. Spencer has changed... but has William Reid?

**Author's Note: **Here is Chapter 27. I planned to have 30 chapters of this written by Christmas, but I think I might actually go over that if I keep writing at this pace. I tend to work in bursts. Sorry for the long delays, and for those reading my other stories, I _will_ finish them when I finish this one. In order to write more, I have found that by saving and checking how many kilobytes I have written in a half an hour, and then trying to beat that... well... it's becoming something of a game. I also am trying to slowly improve the quality of my writing instead of just writing for writing's sake.

Skip the following rambling monologue if you want to get right to the story. Read below if you are curious as to why I am suddenly updating so frequently...

Not only has the Christmas spirit gripped me, but also the winter affliction known as "empty pocket syndrome". I am on a very limited budget and seriously went over this month. Found a used Marconi turn table from the early 60s for my buddy. 40 bucks was an awesome deal for such a cool, if not dusty, little record player. But then I also wanted to get said buddy a collection of vinyl, and went, ever so cleverly, to my local thrift store.

Got some records. Also got some records for myself, of course (I had to get the Phillips' digital recording of Mozart's requiem- same LP version I used to listen to as a little kid, and then I found a Nazareth LP for 2 bucks). And some books for said buddy. Because that thrift store has some awesome books.

Then I found a model of an anthropomorphized rat wearing clothing hailing back to the 1920s (a poor boy cap, pea coat and plaid scarf, not to mention the baggy short-pants and black boots) that I just had to buy said buddy because he and I are both avid fans of the ever popular (ha!) _Rattus norvegicus_, and one of our "co-owned" rats is dying of old age as we speak and needs to be remembered in statue form, obviously.

Then "remembered" said buddy is a bipolar graphomaniac who writes continuously for most of the day, so I _had_ to pick him up a specially made pen (only 10 dollars before tax) that apparently lasts for 7 years if one writes 1.7 meters a day (a meter, for those of you who use the American customary system of inches and feet, is approximately 3.3 feet). And I purchased him a great book called "You can write a novel" (2nd edition) by James V. Smith because since 2008 he has yet to write a single sentence of his literary magnus opus despite writing feverishly about subconscious imps and the interconnection of every atom in the universe and Bose-Einstein condensates. Oh yeah, he also needed stocking stuffers, and I had an orange Julius and Chinese food and wasted money on...you see where I am going?

To make a long story short, after I pay my bills and debts I am practically broke for the next 34.5 days. I worked everything out now (a little too late). I can spend 2.90 a day. To make a long story short... expect me to update much more frequently. No money means I stay at home and watch TV and read and play with my animals. And write fan fiction. Especially now as I have quit (hopefully) smoking and drinking. _Merry Christmas._

**Chapter Note:** Reid continues his talk with Martin. I forgot what sort of sauropod I made Reid's plush toy, "Jason", so in this chapter I have turned him into an apatosaurus (formerly known as the mighty brontosaurus). I think I made him a brontosaurus or a brachiosaurus but can't remember which one and for the sake of getting these chapters out in a timely manner, I am not going to go back and try to find one or two references relating to this fictional toy's taxonomy. Ordinarily I might have done that, but again, that is another reason I don't update regularly. I get so hung up on details and minutiae that nothing ever gets done...

**Chapter 27 starts below! **

* * *

"_**You have to know the past to understand the present."- Dr. Carl Sagan**_

The door opened and the shrink stepped back into the office, carrying a large ceramic cup decorated with Disney characters. He brought the coffee over to Reid, placed it gently on the coffee table, and sat back down.

"You don't have a secretary or something to get coffee?"

"I figured you might like to check out the room alone, without feeling like you were being scrutinized." The psychiatrist said earnestly.

"You didn't get yourself anything to drink," Reid remarked, feeling the first pangs of guilt niggling in his stomach. He didn't want to drink coffee if the man in front of him was empty-handed. Reid knew the reaction was silly, but he also knew that even something as simple as an exchange of coffee could be seen, from an evolutionary perspective, as a power discrepancy. By being given sustenance but not having the giver also partake in the consumption rendered Reid, in his eyes, a parasite. He stared at the coffee darkly, looked at his quivering reflection in the nearly-black liquid.

"I had a lot of coffee already today. Am trying to cut back." Martin said after a moment.

"Why?" Reid asked, sounding suddenly like a stereotypical ten year old child trying to fathom the infinite complexity that was the grown-up mind.

"The antioxidant effects of the bioflavonoids in coffee are beneficial, and I like the taste. But I have already had too much today. Everything in moderation."

Reid chewed the inside of his cheek before nodding. Finally he picked up his mug and took a sip. Smiled. Martin watched him and smiled too, obviously fascinated with the young savant.

"Jason tells me you already had a few cups before arriving today. Sure you aren't going to get too wired?"

Reid put down the cup and stared at the psychiatrist.

"You asked him if I could have coffee?" Reid questioned, sounding almost offended.

"Generally I ask parents or guardians permission before I give their kids anything that has the potential to energize them. Even if it's soda pop."

Reid felt, suddenly, strangely, betrayed.

"You don't think I am mature enough to decide for myself what I put into my own body?"

"I think I know Jason Gideon and don't want him phoning me up in a few hours and chewing my ear off for getting his foster son overly-caffeinated." Martin said smoothly, eyes twinkling. Reid exhaled and nodded. Knew the man was trying to diffuse the situation, paltry as it was.

"Okay. I'm sorry. Not a big deal." Reid offered the shrink, picking the coffee back up again and taking another sip guiltily.

"So. Spencer. You have to know why you're here." Martin began, interlacing his fingers in his lap. Reid nodded solemnly and put the cup back down. Moved it on the table. Saw how it was already leaving wet coffee ring marks in its wake. Had he spilled some coffee down the side of the cup already? Damn, he was clumsy and...

"I was wondering if, it's okay with you, if I tape this meeting. Just so I don't forget anything?"

"I thought you had an eidetic memory..." Reid trailed, but he already knew that protest was useless. Eidetic memories pertained to visual memory, not auditory. While most people with so-called photographic memories also had very good memories in general, Reid knew the psychiatrist in front of him wouldn't let him off the hook that easily.

"I can remember almost anything I see if it is written down. Text in a book, for instance. But we're going to be talking. Of course, I am pretty sure, you having an eidetic memory yourself and being a genius, that you already know all this."

"But... you have a good memory. Don't you?" Reid asked timidly.

"I like to think so, but I don't want to overestimate my own abilities. Anything I tape I will be strictly confidential."

"The term confidential is meaningless," Reid said tiredly. "You will share that tape with anyone who you consider a child welfare authority- police, judges, therapists, doctors, lawyers, whomever."

"Spencer, I don't have to record anything, but I would feel more comfortable if I recorded this interview. I am less prone to make mistakes when I am formulating my recommendations."

Reid sighed. Finally nodded his consent. Martin got up and walked over to his desk, picked a small, battery operated Sony cassette recorder up and came back over to the sofa. He sat back down and pressed the record button before depositing the device on the table in front of them. Reid saw the wheels began to spin, noticed how the tiny red light popped to life to indicate the tape was recording.

"Thank you. Just for the record, my name is Dr. Richard Martin and I have with me 10-year-old Spencer Reid. The date is Wednesday, August 29th, 1990. The time is 12:15 p.m." Martin smiled back at Reid. Reid kept watching the red light, the wheels turning and felt his stomach begin to cramp. Whatever he said now, from this moment forward...God, it was becoming more and more_ official_. His nightmares were being _recorded_. And Gideon had told him, but he had already known without having had to be told that _he could not lie_.

"Do you want to tell me how you think we should proceed? You understand that you are here because of the recent assault you endured, and that Gideon and the authorities responsible for your care right now want you to be assessed. Your father, I believe, is currently being investigated for your assault, but no charges have been laid because he apparently insinuated that your mother was the actual aggressor?"

Reid ground his teeth. Nodded. A nod couldn't be picked up by a cassette recorder.

"Okay, so he did insinuate that." Martin said, easily maneuvering around Reid's attempt to remain silent, both figuratively and literally.

"I probably don't have to ask you this, but... has your mother ever abused you?"

Reid shook his head. Exhaled slowly. "She...my mom... she has problems. She has schizophrenia. She takes medication for it but is not always...med compliant. If she forgets to take her medication, she can become depressed or paranoid and tends to isolate herself in her bedroom, but she has never physically abused me in any way. She is fundamentally opposed to any form of corporal punishment, including spanking." Reid spoke in a detached monotone, as if he was discussing the life of some other person, some other kid. As if he was speaking about a science fair experiment an overzealous parent had concocted and instructed their child to carry out when in reality the child had dreamt of doing something entirely different. As if his life was something complicated but ultimately boring and of limited significance.

"You specified just now that she has never physically abused you. Has she ever abused you in any other way?"

"What do you mean?" Reid asked with an artificial glibness.

"Has she ever abused you emotionally? Or sexually?" The psychiatrist spoke clearly, confidently, his tone compassionate and gentle but also firm.

Reid felt his throat begin to tighten. The word "sexually" had sparked in his brain like a burst of electricity, and he knew he was blushing. He swallowed nervously and felt his heart speed up when he realized that Martin had probably heard him swallow. Would that nervous gulp be recorded on the cassette tape, too? His hands were already sweating and they hadn't even gotten to talking about his father yet.

"She... when she is irrational because of her illness, I suppose some of her comments could be construed as unintentionally abusive, in an emotional sense. And she neglects herself when she is off her medication, so...obviously the case could be made that she neglects me, too."

"Neglects you in which ways?" Martin inquired. Reid licked his lips nervously and ran his fingers over the front of his silk tie. He glanced at the walls, eyes dancing over the numerous colourful images, eyes resting on the girl eating the bird, on the bright red paint that was supposed to be bright red blood.

_Just get this over with, just get it over with and you can go home with Gideon. This is like a panic attack or a bad dream. Uncomfortable at the time. But it will end. Later we will get a Nintendo and games and maybe pepsi and ice cream and play games all day and I will beat him at Battle Chess and we will laugh and laugh and none of this will matter in any way whatsoever..._

"Spencer? How does your mother neglect you, would you say?" Martin asked again when it became apparent that the boy had already started to drift on him.

"Well, she will neglect herself, so emotionally, I guess, she neglects me. You know? But there was always food in the house..." Reid trailed. Food in the house was a good thing. So many children, every day, died of starvation. Clearly his mother was fit if she didn't hurt him and he was fed. Surely everyone could and would see that.

"She goes grocery shopping when she is off her medication?" Martin inquired, but Reid knew the man already knew the answer and hated him for asking.

"No."

"Your father, then... he does the shopping?" Asked so innocently, but Reid knew there was nothing innocent about these questions. Knew that Martin wanted to help, but ultimately whatever he, Spencer Reid, said here could get his parents in really big trouble and shape the course of his life forever and ever.

Reid couldn't help himself. He let out a burst of bitter, anxious laughter and shook his head.

"No. He would never... no."

"So, if your mother doesn't do the grocery shopping when she is not taking her medication and your father doesn't ever shop for groceries... I am guessing that task is left to you?" Again, this question was asked in the same patient, gentle tone of voice. Something about the psychiatrist's voice was starting to bug the living daylights out of Reid, but for the life of him he couldn't imagine what sort of voice he would have selected for the man.

"Yes. I did the shopping when my mom was too ill to do it, because her medication was not working. But there was still always food." Reid spoke quickly, testily, interlacing his own fingers to keep his hands from involuntarily balling up.

"Because you bought the food." Martin said unnecessarily.

"So? A lot of kids do errands." Reid countered. His stomach felt slightly upset and his heart was a bit too speedy and the room was beginning to look too colourful, too full of objects and items and sources of excess stimulation.

"Yes. I know a lot of kids do errands, but from what I am hearing, it doesn't sound like you were asked to run the occasional errand to the corner store for a quart of milk, but rather that, when your Mom is not taking her medication, you are entirely responsible for the grocery shopping. I am guessing you are also responsible for the household chores when she is ill?" Martin's eyes were no longer lively with delight, but instead, sad and knowing.

Reid nodded tightly. Thought about asking if he could just fill out a paper and pencil questionnaire instead, but quickly rejected that idea.

"Spencer, when do you first remember your Mom becoming ill because she wasn't taking her medication or was on the wrong medication?"

Reid shifted uncomfortable. Sighed. "I don't remember."

"You don't have to remember the first time she ever became ill after being diagnosed, but when do_ you_ first remember her becoming ill? Isolating herself in her bedroom or becoming depressed or paranoid, as you put it earlier?"

"Um...maybe when I was about five? Somewhere around then." Reid said this softly. Hated how pitiful his own voice sounded to his ears.

"Surely you weren't grocery shopping and doing chores at five years of age?" Martin prodded carefully, eyes never leaving the boy's solemn, uneasy face.

"I...I was in Kindergarten and the first grade when I was five. I got snacks in Kindergarten. I brought milk money for milk and lunch in the first grade. And kids who came to school with lunches would usually give me their carrots and yogurts and anything else they didn't want." Reid was staring at his lap. Finally looked up.

"What does this have to do with anything, though? I thought you were supposed to ask me about... why I am with Gideon. _Now_."

"I am curious about your home life. How safe you are there. In general." Martin said gently, trying to hold the boy's gaze. Reid made eye contact for a moment before looking away, back to the wall full of so many colourful paintings.

"So when you were five, the only food you got was from snacks in Kindergarten and school lunches and food from other kids?"

"I...sometimes my dad would bring home food for himself. You know. Chinese or whatever. He wouldn't finish it all, so he would put it in the fridge to finish it later but forget it was there or fall asleep, and sometimes I'd sneak some of that..." Reid trailed, instantly aware that he had said more than he had been directly asked.

"Sneak? He didn't feed you?"

Reid laughed uncomfortably. "He worked, you know... he worked a lot. I guess he just assumed my mother fed me. I wasn't emaciated or anything. I was always physically healthy."

"Hmm. And your mother... what did she eat when she was ill?"

"She had...she has...a credit card. My father, I guess it's his, technically, but she uses it. When she remembered to eat she would phone up a pizza delivery place or something, some take out place, and they would come to the house. She would always share whatever she ordered in with me, too."

"When she was ill, did she forget to eat often?" Martin asked concernedly.

"Forget...forget is probably the wrong word. She would eat when she was hungry." Reid said, trying to sound upbeat.

"So, I assume she was hungry 2 or 3 times a day. She ate 2 or 3 meals a day then?"

Reid looked down at the cassette recorder. Shut his eyes. Said a silent prayer. _Forgive me, Mom._

"She would eat maybe every other day. And there was also food in the house, usually, because when she was well she did buy canned and tinned and frozen stuff and usually I could make that stuff last for 3 or 4 months. If we got a pizza, that could sometimes last 3 days between us, if it was a large. And if we got breadsticks..." Reid trailed. The back of his eyes were prickling. His noise was burning. He picked up his coffee and took another sip to hide the sudden urge to cry.

"I ate every day. I always had at least lunch, and usually lunch and dinner. Sometimes lunch and dinner and even a snack. I never remember being hungry." Reid stared at the table for a moment before looking back at the wall, at the paintings, at the toys on the man's desk. At the stupid ceramic phrenology bust that was apparently an ironic paperweight.

"Okay, so you had food, but it was a precarious situation. You got snacks in Kindergarten and lunch at school during the same year when you were in the first grade and other kids would also give you their food. Your mom ordered in food, primarily for herself, and she would share this with you... but she only ordered the food in when she was hungry. You would sometimes eat your father's leftovers. And sometimes there was tinned, canned and frozen food left over from a period when your mother had been well enough to shop."

Reid nodded. Bit his lip. He had never felt hungry, not really. Sure, sometimes he had got up in the middle of the night and taken the cans of beans and pasta and soup out of the cupboards to count. Had checked and rechecked the fridge to see if there was a Styrofoam container with leftover Chinese food or Sushi hidden within. But he had never been hungry. Not really hungry. Not for any length of time.

"When do you remember shopping for food? When did that start?" Martin inquired after a long moment.

"When I entered third grade, when I was six, my father would end up leaving five dollars on the table by the front door every day. I am not sure why, but it would just be there when I woke up."

"So, every day... there was five dollars, and you used that to buy food?"

"Yeah."

"If you needed something, say, like a book or a new pair of shoes, where did that money come from?"

"I used the money he left by the door." Reid said angrily. He suddenly felt very, very angry. What right did this man have to judge the way he had been raised? Sure, his mom had her issues and he had had to shop and learn about money at a relatively young age, but so what? At least his parents had provided for him. No harm in that.

"You got everything you needed from the five dollars he left on the table by the front door... and that was every day? Your dad was never at home?"

"He was at home in the evenings sometimes, when he wasn't working. Sometimes the weekends. But he worked a lot. A lot of parents work a lot."

"And that money, that five dollars... that was there every day?"

Reid sighed. "Most days."

"What does most days mean, Spencer? If you had to approximate, how much money do you think you were left with every week?"

Another sigh from the kid. "Maybe...15 dollars."

"And out of that fifteen dollars you had to buy your food, toilet paper, shoes, books, everything you needed that wasn't already there?"

"The house always had heat and electricity and water. We had furniture. I had clothes. We had a washer and dryer and there was cable. It's not like I really needed that much money, anyway. Not with lunches at school and everything else."

Martin let that comment slide. His purpose wasn't to challenge Reid's beliefs or provide therapy, but to get answers about the kid's home life.

"And when you went grocery shopping...what was that like?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, how did you get the groceries home?" The psychiatrist clarified.

"I would pick up what I wanted at 7-11. There was one just a few blocks from the house. On the rare occasions I needed something that wasn't at 7-11, I would just take the bus to the mall." Reid said this easily, as if most six year olds were expected to ride public busses and shop for their own shoes and clothes and other necessities.

"Okay. What happened if you got sick when your mother was ill? What would happen then?"

"I didn't usually get sick." Reid mumbled.

"But if you did...say, you got the flu or were throwing up. What then?"

"Then I would drink lots of fluids and stay in bed." Reid muttered. Checked his watch. Had they only really been speaking, since the tape had been turned on, for twelve minutes? Felt like hours.

"But what about medicine? If you needed cough syrup or Tylenol?" Martin asked sadly. He already had a good idea what the answer was, but needed to ask anyway.

"Nobody really needs cough syrup or Tylenol. Coughing won't hurt you. Pain won't hurt you. It's just unpleasant."

Richard Martin nodded sadly.

"So when you were sick, you just toughed it out?" More of a comment, really, then a question.

"Sure." Reid ground this out angrily. The tone was clear: _this is not the big deal you are making it out to be._

"And your teachers...the school...they never asked where you were?"

"Mom would write them notes or phone in."

"She would? Even when she was ill?"

"Sure. She was paranoid. Not completely out of touch with reality. She trusted me. If I said I was sick, she believed me. She trusted me to make my own decisions."

"Even at five...at six?" Martin pressed. Reid shrugged.

"I am intelligent. I wasn't like most five or six year olds who will skip or pretend to be sick just because they would rather stay home and play with Lego and watch the television. And it's not like I was sick all the time. I never abused the privilege of being able to choose when to attend, or not attend, school. At any rate, at the age of six my reading comprehension was tested and ranked as being equivalent to that of a university sophomore so school wasn't actually an educational necessity, rendering this entire line of inquiry ultimately insignificant when addressing the big picture issues here."

Richard Martin had seen a lot of kids in his career, a lot of scared and abused and traumatized children. Every case was sad. Every trauma left scars and every abused child was a child he wished could have been helped much sooner. However, something about Spencer Reid's accepting tone and the way he phrased his responses and even how he seemed to have an almost legally binding disclaimer available at the drop of a hat was indicative of just how normal Reid viewed his home life. And if the kid thought extreme neglect and emotional abuse were normal, or even, as Reid had just said, a "privilege", then Martin knew they would need a break before delving any deeper.

"We've been speaking for 15 minutes. What do you say we take a break for ten, maybe use the bathroom?"

"Sure." As much as Reid wanted to get this entire experience over and done with, he knew he would need to collect himself before they got into anything any more difficult. He had already made some mistakes, he knew, and he couldn't afford to make any more stupid errors. As much as he feared going "home", he feared getting his parents into trouble almost as much.

"Do you have to use the washroom?" Martin asked, reaching across and pressing the stop button on the cassette recorder.

"Yeah. I'll do that."

"Do you need any help...?" Martin asked, but Reid immediately shook his head in the negative.

"Okay. I am going to go speak to Jason, okay?"

"Sure..."

* * *

Gideon looked up when he heard footsteps. Rose to meet the psychiatrist.

"Something wrong?"

Richard Martin sighed wearily.

"We haven't started talking about the abuse yet... or at least, not the physical abuse. I have to say that just based on Spencer's descriptions of the neglect he has suffered over the years, I would definitely recommend he not be returned to his parents. Ever."

Gideon nodded sadly. He knew Reid had been neglected. Reid had never spoken about it at length, but it was obvious from throw away comments the boy made.

"He has been responsible for finding his own food from about the age of five. And at five he entered elementary school. Prior to that we didn't touch on, but I wouldn't be surprised if he was severely neglected as an infant and toddler. Elementary school provides at least something of a safety net in screening out blatant abuse and neglect, but only if the child actually attends regularly, and a prodigious, innovative child like Spencer...I am not surprised nothing was officially done sooner."

Gideon nodded again. "How is he holding up?"

"He appears to be understandably wary of me, distrustful. He is anxious and I can tell he is afraid of disclosing anything, but he is answering my questions and extremely precisely, I might add."

"Reid and I had a discussion about the importance of being honest here. That's part of why I am a little worried. He will feel unable to lie or deflect excessively and will feel trapped with direct, uncomfortable lines of questioning. Given his history..." Gideon rubbed at his stubble and sighed. "Where is he now?"

"He went to the washroom. I have a feeling he might need a pep talk."

Gideon smiled sadly. "Of course. I'll...the bathroom down the hall, near the elevators?"

"That's the one. I told him we'd take a ten minute break but you guys take all the time you need. He... Reid didn't bring anything with him that he might like to have during the interview, did he?"

"What, like a _security item_?" Gideon retorted sardonically, imitating the kid's earlier disdain at the prospect of being seen with his stuffed animal. "I believe Reid's exact words were: _I think a ten year old carrying around a generic plush sauropod in lieu of a literal security blanket would raise some questions about said 10-year-old's emotional health._ He was worried about what you would think."

"That's unfortunate. I am 37 and I still bring my lucky rabbit's foot with me every time I go to the dentist." Martin's smile was understanding and empathic; the smile of a man who understood Reid's need to be seen as mature and in control and only wanted the boy to be as comfortable as possible under the circumstances.

"I think...based on his previous reactions to questions which are not nearly as emotionally charged as the ones coming next that Spencer is going to need a rabbit foot of some sort, in any case."

"I did bring Jason before coming. Didn't tell Reid, but I stuffed him in my briefcase."

"Do you think maybe I could hold onto Jason? Maybe store him in my desk...just in case?" Martin asked softly. Gideon did not need to be told what "just in case" referred to.

"Sure." Gideon picked his briefcase up off the neighbouring seat and dug around in it before quickly extricating an olive green dinosaur. He handed the toy to Martin, who looked at it admiringly.

"Cool. I was into brontosauruses, too, when I was little." The psychiatrist said with a chuckle.

"Don't call them_ that_!" Gideon mock-cringed in alarm. "Don't you_ know_? The term brontosaurus is now obsolete. No longer do we use that term! The animal formerly known as the brontosaurus is now the mighty Apatosaurus. Same animal, but it is very important to use the technically correct nomenclature. _Seriously_, Richard." Gideon shook his head in feigned exasperation.

Richard Martin began to chuckle, obviously amused.

"Seriously, Reid takes these details that you and I find irrelevant, extremely seriously. Such as the ICZN." Gideon said, sobering up a little.

"Pardon?"

"The ICZN. International Classification of Zoological Nomenclature. Seriously."

"That's actually not what I was laughing at. I find it almost hysterical that this kid named an animal that only existed 154 to 150 million years ago after you." Martin laughed again, louder this time.

"You really were into dinosaurs as a kid, weren't you?" Gideon said.

"I told you I was...listen...go talk to your kid. He is going to need you. Not just now, but later."

"I was just on my way to do that," Gideon said. "I don't need to sit here and be insulted by you." The profiler's tone was light, comfortable. "Bathroom down the hall, right?"

"You got it."

* * *

That's it for Chapter 27. Still a bit more to Reid's "assessment" and it will get angstier. Within reason. I like well written angst and hurt comfort on occasion, but I find that it is easy to write wangst (whiny angst) or over the top h/c so it's hard getting the balance right. Anyway. Please review. And I did read over this quickly for obvious typos but I haven't had my coffee yet so there might be some hiding amongst us.

Did I say please review? Fan fic reviews are my crack-cocaine. Good or bad, I like them all (except outright flaming). The good ones feed my ego, and the suggestions I do pay attention to and either 1) discard or 2) realize the reviewer made a valid point, and this creates an opportunity to improve my writing, my characters and the story in general. So please review. It takes maybe 30 seconds?


	28. Chapter 28: Breakdown

**Title:** Losing My Religion by Lexikal (Chapter Twenty Eight)  
**Rating:** M for graphic violence against a child and language (in the first chapter, chapter 8 and chapter 10 so far)  
**Fandom:** Criminal Minds  
**Summary:** After two years away from his father and his father's violent rages, Spencer Reid, now ten, is returned home. Spencer has changed... but has William Reid?

**Author's Note: **This note is directed of the fan of my other story "This is my last resort". I promised that I will begin work on that fic as soon as I am done with this. This fic is probably going to be about 40 chapters, and at the speed I am currently writing and updating, it should be completed by New Year's (note, I will not be writing on Christmas Day, previous commitments). Anyway, I never planned to abandon any of my stories. They got put on the back burner for a long while because I had other things going on in my life which demanded my attention. Now, for the foreseeable future, I am back. TimLR will eventually be completely. Please keep in mind that it takes me about 3 times as long to write a chapter for TimLR and it is a much more complicated story. I would pm you directly but you are currently unable to log in. Just wanted to let you know, if you read this, that none of the stories (save for, perhaps, Coulrophobia) have been permanently abandoned.

**Chapter Note:** We get into the nitty gritty in this chapter. This chapter will contain direct references to child abuse, but if you have gotten this far in this fic you already know that this story does have those references from time to time. ;) Feed back, like always, is appreciated.

* * *

"_**He who does not understand your silence will probably not understand your words." – Elbert Hubbard**_

Gideon pushed the door of the bathroom open and entered. Looked around. Reid was nowhere to be seen. He had only spoken to Richard Martin for 3 or 4 minutes tops, which was just enough time for Reid to wheel himself to the bathroom, but probably not enough time to do anything.

"Reid?" Gideon called and gazed around the room. Nothing. Gideon walked down the row of stalls, even opened the door to the handicapped stall. Nothing. No Reid. Brow furrowing, Gideon quickly left the room.

He walked hurriedly to the psychiatrist's office. The door had been propped open with a door jamb for Reid's return.

"He's not in the bathroom." Gideon told the psychiatrist shortly. Martin's eyes narrowed.

"He told me he was going to the washroom." Martin said, standing up from the sofa and walking over to Gideon. "You don't think he would leave, do you?"

_Damn it. Reid._

"He might," Gideon muttered and without waiting for the other man to follow, turned and stalked towards the elevator next to the bathroom. Hammered on the down button repeatedly, even though he knew that wouldn't make the elevator arrive any sooner.

There was a loud ding and the doors slide open. Gideon stepped onto the elevator and turned to face the psychiatrist.

"Stay here, okay? In case he comes back?"

"Of course."

The doors slid shut and Gideon hammered the ground button. He mentally swore like a mantra as the elevator slowly descended, and the damned thing seemed to move at a snail's pace. The elevator dinged again and Gideon rushed out into the lobby and glanced around. No Reid. Ground level was mostly a large open space with potted plants and a fountain and a large listing of individual psychiatrists and psychologists ordered alphabetically on a polished wooden plaque and bolted to the wall. There was no reason for Reid to hang out here. Gideon sprinted to the automatic doors and stumbled out into the afternoon glare of late autumn. Blinked, and looked around. To his left was a path leading to the parking lot, to his right a path leading to a small park and... Gideon squinted. Exhaled in relief. Parked on the grass next to a bench, eyes shut and face pale, was his kid. Gideon jogged over to Reid, schooled his features into an appropriate mix of concern and relief.

"Reid?" Gideon approached the boy slowly. "What are you doing out here?"

"I didn't have to the bathroom so I came down here for some air. He said we could have a ten minute break. It's only been..." Reid glanced down at his watch. "7 and a half minutes. I was just about to go back."

"I was worried when I couldn't find you. Richard told me you had gone to the washroom."

"And what? You thought I had run away? Or...actually, to be accurate...rolled myself away? I can just imagine how far I'd get before you realized I was on the lam." Reid shut his eyes again and inhaled deeply as if trying to inhale the peace and beauty of all the ancient trees around him.

Gideon sighed too, loudly enough that Reid could hear, and that sigh spoke volumes. That sigh told the kid that he wasn't alone, that Gideon was stressed and uncomfortable, that none of this was fun or easy for anyone. That sigh, Gideon hoped, conveyed the message that Reid wasn't alone in this.

"How are you handling everything so far?" The profiler asked in what he hoped was a soothing tone of voice. "I know this can't be easy for you."

"It's...he's making my mom sound like she is some kind of monster or something." Reid's eyes were still shut but Gideon could see the tears leaking out. Not a lot. Reid blinked heavily, as if he could blink away his sadness.

"I don't think he is trying to make your mom sound like a monster. He just wants to know the full extent of what your home life is like. Keep in mind that what you tell him about your mom- and your dad- can help him to come to the same conclusion that I came to almost immediately. That is, that your mom, while ill and sometimes neglectful, did not hurt you like your dad is trying to say." Gideon sat down on the bench next to Reid. Waited for his response.

"He said we had a 10 minute break. We best be going back now." Reid's voice sounded raw and sad and forlorn and Gideon hated the sound of that voice, the pain there.

"He won't mind if we take longer. 10 minutes was just a suggestion. He knows as well as I do just how tough this is for you."

"If I say nothing, my dad can downplay his actions, create reasonable doubt. He is a lawyer, after all, and even his previous arrests for violence...he can make those seem insignificant. Children are still treated like chattel. Like property. And so are women. It's much easier and more convenient for the average person to believe an un-medicated paranoid schizophrenic might severely beat her own child during a psychotic break than to believe an intelligent, competent, utterly sane attorney would beat the crap out of his own child with an iron for no other reason than said child happened to be a boy and was doing the laundry." Reid stopped suddenly and was silent and then his face twisted. Crumpled. It didn't take a profiler to realize the kid was a second away from tears.

Gideon was right, but when Reid finally broke down he didn't simply cry. He sobbed. Gideon stood up and walked over to Reid, knelt down and picked the kid up, cast and all, to his chest.

"Reid, shhh. Buddy shhhhh...I know you're sad. I know this hurts. _Spencer_. Come on." Gideon held him, head against his shoulder and swayed slightly on the grass. Reid held onto him like a scared baby monkey, crying tears and snot and saliva onto his shoulder. He had seen Reid cry before, but now, something in that sob sounded broken and wild and out of control. It was both heart-breaking and a little scary to hear.

"Spencer. Spencer. _Spencer_...it's okay...it's okay pal...I'm here...you're doing great, I am so proud of you...Reid..._shhhh_..."Gideon mumbled, swaying gently, trying to rock the awkward bundle in his arms. Reid's cast made it very, very hard to rock him, and his skinny arms were wrapped around the agent's neck in what amounted to a choke hold. Gideon sighed and attempted to place Reid back in the wheelchair but the kid immediately clung tighter and his crying intensified. Gideon could feel the fear radiating off the hot, sweaty body in his arms like waves.

"Okay. I got you. I won't let you go. Come on, pal. Come on." Gideon had to raise his voice a bit so the kid might hear it over the hysterical sobbing.

"_He...wants...to...make my, my mom...my mommmmm...sound like a monsterrrr..."_ Reid wailed, and if Jason Gideon hadn't been listening exceptionally carefully he wouldn't have been able to decipher the wailed lamentation.

"No he doesn't. He just wants you to be safe." Gideon soothed. Reid just continued to cry, his voice hitching and then dissolving into chokes and gasps and finally a wail that was truly eerie.

"Come on." Paying no mind to the wheelchair, Gideon carried his sobbing bundle back towards the building. Gideon wasn't sure when Reid would calm down or if the kid would ever really heal from his ordeals, but he knew one thing. He wasn't going to leave Reid alone any longer. If this reaction alone wasn't indicative of severe and prolonged abuse, Special Agent Jason Gideon of the FBI's behavioural sciences unit didn't know what was.

"I'm not going to leave you, Reid. We're going to go back up and talk to Richard together, but I am not going to leave you."

In the pit of his stomach, though, the agent's fear for the child he held was growing. Was Reid really crying because he felt like he had betrayed his mother, or was he sobbing hysterically because he knew the line of questioning that awaited him and was terrified by the prospect of having to answer such questions honestly?

_Jesus Christ, Kiddo, what did that bastard do to you?_

* * *

The trip back up in the elevator didn't seem nearly as long to Jason Gideon, now that he was holding Reid firmly in his arms. Reid, almost from the moment they entered the building, had obviously attempted to quiet his crying but the sheer force of his pain was so strong that his breath kept hitching and he was shaking, hard, in the agent's arms.

"Reid. It's okay. I am not going to put you down. You won't have to face any questions alone."

That simple, gentle statement re-opened the flood gates and Reid was crying again, trying desperately to stop, Gideon could tell from the breathing pattern, but unable to stop.

"I'm coming with you, kiddo. We are just going to go talk to Richard together. I won't leave you. I won't even put you down. Come on. It's okay. We'll just go talk to Richard and then we'll go home. It's okay. Come on..."

How much of Gideon's comments were actually punching through Reid's wall of grief and pain was anyone's guess, but somehow it felt like the right thing to do, to keep talking soothingly to the kid, so Gideon kept it up.

"And if you want, maybe tomorrow or in a few days we can get one of those Nintendos, and yes, I will play Battle Chess with you. We can play with Pollux and Castor tonight and eat ice cream. Drink coffee. Stay up late. It'll be okay, buddy. Come on, Reid. It'll be okay."

Gideon sincerely hoped it would be okay. The broking, wailing crying continued. What the kid was going through was hard to imagine. Having to look at his mother's illness and his own childhood, if one could call it that. His father's sheer brutality. The anger. The years of abuse and sickness and having to always be on guard and alert and at the same time, always loving the people who were hurting you and keeping their acts private to prevent them from being exposed and punished. The fear and self loathing that must have accompanied so much of Reid's waking life for as long as the kid could remember. Gideon got a sudden mental image of Reid at the age of three, dirty and forgotten, looking through empty cupboards for food his sick mother didn't have the ability to buy, already bruised and battered and living in a nightmare world even his genius intellect could not begin to comprehend or adjust to.

The elevator dinged and Gideon stepped off onto Richard Martin's floor and carefully, determinedly, walked with his precious cargo towards the psychiatrist's office.

* * *

Martin approached the door before he even saw Gideon or Reid. He could hear the child crying from the moment the pair set foot of the elevator.

He met Gideon halfway in the hall, exchanged a sad, knowing glance and silently led the pair back to his office.

Gideon gently sat down on the couch facing Martin's, and cradled Reid to his chest. Martin reached over and pressed the record button on the cassette recorder.

"I found him outside in the courtyard. He was okay at first, but then started to talk about how he felt his mother was being made to look like a monster. He talked about his father beating him with an iron and then..." Gideon didn't have to finish the sentence. _And then the boy had started sobbing._

"Spencer...I am sorry. I really didn't mean to upset you or make your mom seem like a monster. That wasn't my intention at all. My first priority is to keep you safe. That's why I asked what I did. That's the only reason, but I am very, very sorry you are so upset. I wish you weren't so upset."

"_I wanna go hoooome_!" Reid keened, face buried in Gideon's shoulder, voice muffled. Gideon nodded and sighed. Gone was the earlier astounding precocity. In its place was the real Spencer Reid- emotionally exhausted and wounded on a level that defied words.

"Reid, I know you want to go home. We just need to finish up with Richard, and then we will go straight home." Gideon crooned, making eye contact with the shrink. _The message was clear: He can't take much more. Let's make this fast._

"I left his chair outside. I picked him up to comfort him and he panicked when I tried to put him down." Gideon said softly, still rocking Reid gently. Reid was still crying, and loudly. Eventually he would stop, from sheer physical exhaustion if nothing else, but Gideon knew that Reid's pain went agonizingly deep and his sobbing could continue for a good twenty or thirty minutes. If not longer.

"Okay. Do you think...would he be okay to face me, do you think Jason?" Martin asked kindly, gaze flickering between the heaving, sobbing child and the dedicated profiler who held him so tenderly.

"I don't know." Gideon breathed. "_Reid_? Reid, buddy. Come up for air, pal. Richard is just going to ask you a few more questions and then we can go home..."

"I wanna go home nowwww..." Reid choked out between heaving sobs. Gideon rearranged the little boy on his lap and gently stroked his back.

"I know. Richard just has to ask you a few more things. I will stay with you the entire time, right, Richard?"

"Right," the psychiatrist said immediately. "Right."

"_Noooo..._."

"Reid, do you think you could turn around and face Richard? Richard will be fast. We will be out of here in a few minutes." Gideon met the psychiatrist's eyes. It wasn't up for debate. Richard Martin nodded resolutely. He didn't want to put the kid through any more than he had to and fully understood Gideon's desire to hurry this along.

"Reid, come on pal..." Gideon said tenderly and gently repositioned the boy so that his body, at least, was facing the shrink. Reid craned his head to the side, arms reaching for his foster father's. Gideon wrapped his own arms around the child's midsection and hugged him to.

"Richard...I think would be a good time for Jason." Gideon said mildly, as if Reid wasn't crying hysterically and beet red. Martin nodded and hurried toward his desk, pulled the toy out of his desk and carried it over to the child.

"I left him at home..." Reid said, trying to catch his breath, face wet.

"I know, but I put him in my briefcase just in case." Gideon soothed. Reid took the dinosaur from the psychiatrist and held it to his face, buried his face into it, smelled it. It already smelled like his home... his home with Gideon. A warm, almost sweet, comforting smell. Reid bit the inside of his cheek. Willed himself to stop crying. He already looked enough like a baby.

And...Reid scanned the room. Realized the tape recorder was recording. Recording all of this. That realization sent a jolt of pain and shame through the ten year old and he began to cry again.

"Spencer...or does he prefer Reid?" Martin asked Gideon as he returned to his seat.

"He likes me to call him Reid. If you've been calling him Spencer up until now, it's probably fine..." Gideon hedged.

"Okay. Spencer. Like I said, I am really sorry that you are upset, and that you felt I was trying to make your mom look like a monster. I wasn't. I think I understand how things were like at home with your mom when she was sick. So can I ask you a few questions about your dad so we can finish this meeting up?"

Reid made a choked sounding noise but nodded. Once again, the kid tried to reign in his emotions. Gideon cuddled the boy to him, careful of the cast, and hoped to God the kid knew that at least his foster father loved him like a son.

"Okay. Thanks. Thank you. Anything that is too hard to talk about in detail, you can write out later and give to Gideon and he will give it to me. Or you can tell Gideon. Okay?"

"O..kay..." Reid breathed wearily and wiped at his face with his free hand. His other hand was wrapped tightly around his stuffed animal.

"Okay...your father...the beating you sustained. Is your father responsible for all of those injuries? Your missing teeth and your broken leg, all of them? Everything in the file?"

Reid choked out a yes. Gideon kissed the back of his head and prayed that the kid could keep it together for a few more minutes.

"Okay. And he has previously beaten you?"

Reid nodded. Gideon sighed. Sitting here with Reid and watching Reid answer the questions, actually watching and analyzing instead of asking the kid questions directly, gave the profiler a chance to see just how difficult and painful this really was. That, and there was a tremor running through the boy's body, a humming quality, as if his insides had been scooped out and stuffed full of wasps.

"When he beat you. Did he use his hands? A belt? Kick you?" Martin's voice was soft, almost apologetic and Gideon knew that he had to ask. That Reid had never really fully disclosed the abuse in detail to anyone and without his disclosure making any potential charges stick would be a lot harder.

"Reid, buddy, he asks because he needs to know. Can you take a deep breath for me?" Gideon coached. Reid did as commanded and gulped.

"Can you tell Richard how your dad hit you? The different ways? Things that made you feel pain or scared you?"

"He...he punched me in the face and the chest and the stomach and the back. And he kicked me. He kicked me in the head a few times. He belted me. 'Cross the face and 'cross the back and the butt. He...he...he hit me with the iron...in the face. He wrapped the cord around his hand and swung it. He..."Reid gulped nervously and continued, and Gideon hugged him harder. He was so proud of his kid.

"He put his cigarettes out on me. He threw plates at me. He grabbed me by the hair and dragged me around and smashed me against the wall. He threw me. He once took a knife and made it...moved it over my throat so that my skin bled a little, but not a lot and he threw me...threw me down the stairs... and things like that, bit me...if he was mad and it was close by he would do it...if he was drunk...he did a lot...can't remember what I already said and what I didn't..."

Martin exhaled slowly. Gideon had known the man for years, and knew that although he had read Reid's files, hearing a description of the torture from the child's own mouth was hard for him to hear, despite his extensive experience dealing with trauma.

"Okay. I know that must have been really hard to say. Thank you. Your dad... did he shout and scream a lot at you? Or threaten you? Lock you up?"

Reid nodded simply as if to say "Yes to all of the above."

"Reid, can you tell him what he did out of those things?"

"He...he locked me in the basement once. For 2 days. Because I stole some of his food. He locked me out of the house when he was mad so I would sleep on the lawn. And...he said he would kill me when he was drunk. He said..." Reid swallowed hard and shut his eyes. "Kill me and kill my mom because I was a fucking psycho just like her. But he only said that when he was drunk. I...when I was seven I brought him a stray cat. He killed it. He beat it to death with one...with a golf club."

Gideon had to shut his own eyes. He knew the kid was telling the truth. Knew it and that's why it was so hard to listen to. Reid had stopped crying and his voice had evened out.

"Okay, thank you. One last question Spencer...did your dad ever touch you anywhere private?"

Reid was silent. Gideon had the taped disclosure in his briefcase, had told Martin over the phone that he would give it to him to review after Reid's appointment.

"I don't want to talk about that." Reid said flatly, and became suddenly much more rigid in Gideon's arms.

"Okay...we don't have to talk about details but..."

"If I say yes, will you ask me anymore questions about it?"

Martin looked over at Gideon. Gideon's look was clear. Take it. It's the most you're going to get out of him.

"I won't ask you any specific questions, and if you ever feel like talking you can talk to Gideon or right it down, but I need to know..."

"He did. I want to go home now. Gideon...you said we could go home after the questions."

"Right. We will go home now. Richard, I think I left my briefcase in the waiting room," Gideon informed seriously, raising his eyebrows. Martin nodded.

"It's in there? Where the dinosaur was."

"Yes. It's labelled with his name and the date it happened."

"Okay. I'll go get it and bring you your bag." Martin said softly, before reaching over and stopping the audio recording.

Gideon sighed and hugged the kid again. "You did it buddy. You did it. We can go home now."

* * *

Reid was silent on the way home. Gideon had deposited him in the front seat with his briefcase and his dinosaur and then wandered back to the courtyard to retrieve the boy's wheelchair, which he folded up hastily and stuffed in the backseat.

"You did really well today, Reid. I know that was really hard. I am so proud of you, though."

Reid remained silent. Gideon knew he was emotionally exhausted. Was probably running the day's events through his head at warp speed, over and over.

"Do you want to listen to music?"

Reid sighed. Shook his head silently.

"Okay." Gideon wanted to say more. Wanted to ask the kid if he wanted that Nintendo, if he wanted ice cream for dinner or wanted to rent more movies, but he couldn't bring himself to say any of those things. Those activities seemed so hollow and empty next to Reid's emotional guts being pulled out and examined. The kid needed his silence, his time to grieve without idiotic banter or distractions.

Gideon drove on, eyes focused on the road. Neither said anything when the sky darkened and began to spit rain.

* * *

Hope you liked that chapter. Last chapter I am uploading today, I have been writing fan fic all day and need a break. But I will update again soon. And, once again for those who are anxious, I will start working on "This is my Last Resort" as soon as this puppy is complete. One thing at a time or I will never finish any of them. In the meantime I am sure there is plenty of awesome Criminal Minds fan fiction to read.

In the meantime, if you haven't already read it, some of you may want to read "Chaos Theory" by Chloe Winchester. It's a Reid-gets-kidnapped-and-tortured fic and should satisfy until I am finished this and can get back to "This is my last resort". Here is the url (minus the "dots"):

www fanfiction net/s/5619896/1/Chaos_Theory

Or, for those looking for new fic, I highly suggest checking out CM fic finders on live journal. Lots of cool CM fic there that dedicated readers will help you find (you make a request about what sort of story you would like to read and they track similar stories down for you). Many of the stories that the CM fic finders actually find aren't here on fanfictiondotnet so you might find some new stuff.

Until we meet again... ;)


	29. Chapter 29: One Hell of a Little Fighter

**Title:** Losing My Religion by Lexikal (Chapter Twenty Nine)  
**Rating:** M for graphic violence against a child and language (in the first chapter, chapter 8 and chapter 10 so far. Chapter 28 has Reid discussing specific acts of abuse but not at length.)  
**Fandom:** Criminal Minds  
**Summary:** After two years away from his father and his father's violent rages, Spencer Reid, now ten, is returned home. Spencer has changed... but has William Reid?

**Author's Note: **Thanks for the reviews. One reviewer said the author's notes were too long. I went back and checked, and yup- they are way too long. Also, I reread the newer chapters after posting, and realized there were too many typos and mistakes. My computer checks for spelling mistakes but I do include some sentence fragments in my stuff on purpose and many words are not recognized (names of dinosaurs, diseases, etc). So I do miss some stuff because I ignore a lot of the green and red squiggly lines that Microsoft Word puts under words and sentences it thinks are "wrong". However, there were still mistakes and I am sorry about that. Was writing too quickly, and didn't edit properly. Also, the scenes where Reid seems to talk at length about specific topics are not meant to be boring, but to show how the kid is deflecting from his current situation and using his intelligence to keep his emotions at arm's reach.

**Chapter Note:** Nothing too heart-wrenching in this chapter. I know a lot of you guys love angst and h/c (so do I!) but I don't think it's realistic to have it in every chapter. If for no other reason than, in reality, Reid would be worn out. Everyone needs down-time. Here is the next chapter.

* * *

They got home shortly before 2. Gideon had stopped at McDonald's on the way home, ordered a Big Mac and large chocolate shake through the drive-thru. No way was he cooking when they got home. He handed Reid the shake and Reid took it without comment.

Not everything in life had to be a long, drawn-out conversation apparently. Gideon made a mental note to limit just how much input the kid had in day to day matters. Reid had been taking care of himself for so long that he had obviously forgotten, or never learned, what it meant to be a little kid and have a grown up make decisions for you. Also, Gideon knew, something as simple as choosing a milkshake flavour could have elicited a 5 minute discussion on the pros and cons of each flavour, before venturing off into a philosophical discussion of the ethics of consuming fast food in general and whatever other topic Reid could possibly connect to said milkshake, and Gideon was way too tired for that. Reid was apparently too tired for his usual analysis of everything he could think of, as well. Because he had just taken the milkshake without comment.

"We're home." Gideon said unnecessarily when they pulled into the drive way. Reid nodded and took another sip of his milkshake.

"Do you want me to carry you in or get the chair out?"

"Carry." Reid said flatly.

"Okay. I am going to go unlock the door and prop it open. Okay?"

"Kay." Reid sighed.

Gideon smiled. The kid was exhausted but there was a legally binding, documented record from the kid's own mouth of his abuse. He had gone through his dental surgery. He was healing. Nothing overly traumatic loomed on the horizon any longer. They could both breathe a little bit now. Gideon walked up the walk-way, unlocked the door and stuffed a brick from the front garden in front of it. The door pushed against the brick, so he added another and walked slowly back down to the car.

"Do you want to sit on the couch, on your bed or use the bathroom?" Gideon asked Reid as he opened the passenger door and bent down to scoop up the kid.

"Bathroom, then get changed, then couch." Reid said tiredly. "I'm not done my milkshake."

"Leave it in the car. I'll come back and get it in a second."

"Yeah." Reid put his milkshake on the driver's seat and leaned over, clasped his arms around Gideon's neck and dropped his head to the man's shoulder tiredly.

Gideon carried his worn out little boy into the house. He wasn't sure when he had started thinking of Reid as _his _and not just a child he loved and cared for, but he definitely did think of the kid as his. The transition had crept up on him. He carried Reid to the washroom, pulled out the medical supply seat with the back that Reid "sat" on whenever he needed to take a leak.

"I'm going to go get the stuff from the car. I'll take you to get dressed in a few minutes, okay?"

"Yeah." Reid said tiredly.

Gideon shut the door and went back to the car.

* * *

Reid was sprawled out on the couch. Gideon had helped him change into sweats and a t-shirt after unloading the car and had handed the kid the remote and his dinosaur. Gideon sat in the easy chair, eating his Big Mac, watching Reid who was dazedly watching an old Star Trek re-run and sipping on his relatively warm chocolate milk shake.

If it wasn't for the shaved head and the cast, Reid could almost have passed for any sleepy little kid lazing on the couch and watching TV. The thought made Gideon smile wanly. He finished his burger and put the box back in the paper carry out bag so he could stuff it in the kitchen garbage later.

"I'm going to go get a shower. You okay hanging out and watching TV for a bit?"

"Yeah." Reid mumbled tiredly, eye lids heavy. No doubt the boy would be out for the count by the time Gideon was finished his shower.

"Okay."

* * *

Gideon thought about the day's events in the shower. He was so proud of his boy, so proud of Reid. Sometimes adults forgot how scary and overwhelming the world could be for kids, and what Reid had delved into today would have been extremely painful and scary for an adult to deal with, much less a child. Reid had broken down and Gideon had been prepared to take him home then and there, if the kid had demanded it, but Reid, of course, had known the importance and gutted his way through the rest of the meeting with fierce determination.

Gideon had read his files and knew William Reid was, for lack of a better word, a monster. He's never heard about the kitten before, or being locked away for days or some of the other atrocities Reid had confessed to enduring between sobs. The profiler craned his head back under the hot sheaf of water and tried to reign in his own emotions, but his stomach was tight and burned with anger. He had never wanted to physically assault someone in his entire life, but every nerve in his body was itching to fight the man, to pound his miserable, abusive face until it was unrecognizable. Gideon exhaled deeply and shut his eyes, stepped out of the spray and lathered his hair. He felt almost dirty, knowing what had happened to Reid, having that knowledge in his mind. It was a feeling he had felt before, when working on tough cases, especially ones that involved kids. It was as if... the evil that surrounded a case had tainted his brain and made it dirty, simply because he knew what had taken place.

On those days the profiler had taken long showers and washed and rewashed his hair, wishing that evil and pain could be washed away like oil and physical dirt.

There had been days he wanted to take out his brain, his mind, and scrub it with a nail brush and Dettol soap. If asked, he would truthfully say that his job was his passion. Stopping killers and rapists and terrorists was important, was more than a job but a driving force. Gideon could not have stopped trying to stop the violent, deranged Unsubs of the world any more than he could have willingly stopped breathing. Didn't mean that dealing with them didn't hurt. Didn't make him feel dirty and like his soul had been stripped a little more each day, of some inherent and precious innocence.

When it came to Spencer, he felt even more anger than he did when working on even the worst BSU cases. He knew Spencer personally and loved him and could not keep the objective, professional distance he strived to keep when working actual BSU cases. He was the child's foster father, and legally he was responsible for his safety. He was his guardian. The word guardian was important. Gideon had looked it up in the dictionary. He already knew, of course, what it meant, but it never hurt to refresh one's memory:

**guard·i·an**

[gahr-dee-uhn]

**noun**

1. a person who guards, protects, or preserves.

2. Law . a person who is entrusted by law with the care of the person or property, or both, of another, as a minor or someone legally incapable of managing his or her own affairs.

3. the superior of a Franciscan convent.

**adjective**

4. guarding; protecting: a guardian deity.

Gideon, of course, already knew the legal definition of the word, and that it meant, essentially, "to guard", but the words "protects" and "preserves" had stuck with him. Because that was what this came down to, and that was what so many legal guardians seemed to forget when dealing with kids.

The foster child was not chattel, or a slave, or some societal inconvenience that owed the foster parent for taking mercy on it. The child was precious, was hurting, was in need of protection and preservation. Of love and commitment. The foster parent, the legal _guardian_, had been entrusted to take care of a minor child, of a developing human being, and more often than not, a child that had been through Hell and was still fighting strongly to hold onto his or her own decency and hope.

Gideon had always considered the role of the foster parent to be an important societal role, of course, but before he had become legally responsible for Spencer, he had never really, emotionally, understood just how important the job was, and how easy it was to forget just how important it was to truly _guard_ the child in one's care.

When it came to Reid, Gideon felt honoured to be the boy's guardian. The profiler shut his eyes and stepped back under the pelting water, rinsed the pert plus from his hair, and ran the memory of Reid sitting in the courtyard, brokenly sobbing through his head.

He had sounded broken. At the end of his rope. But somewhere beyond words, on a visceral level, Gideon knew Reid was far from broken. Hurting badly and in need of consideration and patience and love and compassion, yes. But far from broken. His sheer bravery today had proven that the kid wasn't broken, wasn't damaged beyond repair.

"I love you, little boy." Gideon whispered under the pelting water. It was an admission to the universe and it slipped out without conscious thought. Gideon turned off the shower, stepped out into the steamy room and grabbed a towel.

He loved Reid, but his anger for Reid's father was like a little bonfire in his stomach, growing stronger and hotter with each new disclosure of torture. Torture, not "abuse". Abuse was a sterile term, a term that denoted everything from excessive spankings to physical death at the hand of the "abuser". Reid, of course, had been abused, but the word did not begin to really cover the depth of his mistreatment.

Torture was the appropriate word to describe what had happened to the child. He had been _tortured_, plain and simple. Despite what so many people seemed to think, parents could and did torture their own children every day. Every child who died as a result of their parents' beatings or nearly died, who lived in constant fear or dread of what might happen to them in the next minute or hour or day was a tortured child. Torture wasn't an act that could only occur in dungeons or in the "Middle East" at the hands of political despots and their cronies. Torture was simply the act of inflicting excruciating pain, as punishment or revenge, as a means of getting a confession or information, or for sheer cruelty. And that fit Reid.

Reid had been intentionally and sadistically and extremely hurt by his father, for no reason except said "father" could, physically, commit those crimes. And in doing so, William Reid had effectively reduced his son to the status of an object, something not only less than human but less than that of a living being of any sort. Nothing that drew breath deserved such brutality. Gideon ground his teeth, tasted bile in his mouth. Spit into the sink and rinsed it out.

_Careful, Gideon. You hate his father, and Reid will pick up on that. The man may be a monster, but he is also Spencer's father, and God knows why, but Spencer still loves him. Careful. Calm down. If Reid perceives your anger, he will assume it is directed at him. He has been conditioned to assume all anger is directed at him. It's how he has physically kept alive all these years._

Gideon exhaled again, slowly. Thought about how far the boy had come in just the few weeks he had been with him, and how hard he tried. How much pain he had gutted his way through, even when it was necessary, like his meeting with Martin earlier and his dental surgery. How good and kind and compassionate Reid was, how sensitive, how understanding.

Gideon finished towel drying his hair and brushed his teeth to get the last of the bile taste out of his mouth. He changed quickly into the FBI academy t-shirt and sweats he had set out on the toilet before the shower, slipped his feet into socks and went downstairs to rejoin his foster son.

* * *

As expected, Reid was fast asleep when Gideon entered the living room. He was cradling his dinosaur to his chest, snoring slightly, a small line of drool leaking from the corner of his parted lips and collecting in a small pool on the collar of his Ninja Turtles t-shirt. Gideon gently picked the boy up and carried him to his room, laid him carefully on his bed and draped a thin blanket over the kid. It was too warm for the big duvet. Reid couldn't get in and out of the chair by himself. His cast was too cumbersome for that. Gideon walked over to the boy's book shelf and pulled out his electronic chess game and a few action figures, a box of crayons and markers and pad of paper and lined the toys neatly up on the bedside table so that Reid would have something to do when he woke up.

He watched the sleeping form and suddenly realized just how attractive a mid-afternoon nap really was. Gideon grabbed the kid's doodle pad and pulled a green marker out of the box and wrote Reid a quick note.

"Reid, I am so proud of you. You were sleeping so I thought you would be more comfortable in your own room. I left your chess game on the table within arm's reach, some toys and some paper and markers and crayons. I am going to be sleeping on the couch in the living room. If you wake up and need me, just call, I will hear you. I love you buddy. Gideon."

He tore the note out of the pad and gently tucked it under Reid's arm, next to "Jason" and put the paper and markers back on the desk.

Time for a nap.

Gideon walked back to the living room, dimmed the lights and fell onto the couch. He was asleep almost instantly.

* * *

The shrill sound of the phone ringing brought Gideon back to consciousness with a jolt. The agent wiped his eyes and blearily shot a baleful glance at the hall clock. It was almost 5 in the afternoon, meaning he had been asleep for over 2 hours. Gideon roused himself, silently hoping that the phone wouldn't wake Reid if he was still snoozing, and grabbed it out of the cradle.

"Gideon."

"Jason, it's Richard Martin. I just went over the tape you brought in. Just wanted to let you know that based on Reid's behaviour and comments today and what I heard on that tape, I am definitely going to recommend that that boy never be returned to his father and not to his mother unless she is stable on medication and willing to accept regular visits from a child welfare worker to ensure she is complying with her medication regime."

Gideon sighed in relief and nodded to himself. "Right. Good."

"In addition, I am fully willing to testify that I believe Spencer has been repeatedly and severely physically, emotionally and sexually abused at the hands of his father. I know Spencer didn't go into detail with any of us about the sexual abuse, but based on what I heard on the tape you brought in, its sounds like he was raped anally." Martin took a deep breath.

"I know he was in the hospital and any obvious injuries would have been noticed, but he may have healed scarring or even an STD that we don't know about. I don't advise he be checked out for scarring at this point. I think any serious injury would have already made itself known to us and any exam to check for scarring now would cause much more trauma than is necessary. However, I do think he should have his blood drawn and urine tested for various STDs, just to be on the safe side. They don't all have symptoms and even if Spencer does have symptoms, he might be withholding them from you."

Gideon sighed tiredly. He knew Martin was right. But sometimes it seemed like the kid never got a damned break.

"He is phobic of doctors in general..." Gideon started.

"I know. And I also know an invasive exam would re-traumatize him, so I am not suggesting that, at least not at this point and not in the foreseeable future. However, a urine sample and a blood test could be used to screen for most STDs. You could tell him that they want to make sure he doesn't have a bladder infection because he has been immobile and are checking his blood to get a base reading and make sure he is not anemic because of his limited diet. I am sure Spencer would accept those explanations, because they are easier to accept than the alternative. I can give you the name of a very good paediatrician who is gentle and quick and great with a needle."

"Yeah. Okay..." Gideon muttered, grabbing a note pad from the coffee table and an errant ball point pen. He scribbled quickly.

"If Spencer is positive for any STD, and I hope he isn't, obviously, but if he is that is considered proof of sexual abuse. The good news is that, with very few exceptions, a course of antibiotics is the treatment. His father would hopefully want to clear his name by offering his own medical files or being tested, and if the man also has the same STD, combined with Reid's recorded testimony and my observations of his behaviour, his medical files and your expert opinion as a behavioural profiler, I don't think there would be a chance in Hell of William Reid getting his son back. Also, and I think you will agree with me, but I am firmly opposed to putting Spencer on the stand. If this does go to court, and I think it will, no reasonable jury will have any problem with Spencer not testifying after hearing these tapes, reading his medical files and seeing the hospital photographs of his injuries. Also, from the sound of it, William Reid is a sadistic narcissist and they can and will dig their own graves on the stand. I know some really good prosecutors who specialize in child abuse cases and have dealt with William Reid's ilk before." Martin sighed. Waited for Gideon to respond to this onslaught of news before continuing.

"Reid's father is a defence attorney. He will know how to work the system."

"My guys are pretty good at what they do and are used to dealing with arrogant sleaze balls. If I have your permission to share some of Reid's information with a few of them I might be able to secure a really good prosecutor for Reid's case, pro bono."

"Yes. Yes. You have my permission." Gideon said, but the hot, burning anger was back. Martin's comments, honest as they were, were a sign that Reid's fight to heal was long from over.

"Another thing you may or may not have considered. If Reid's father is an attorney, and this does go to trial, my guess would be the man is going to try and represent himself and demand Spencer be put on the stand. I don't have to tell you how traumatic that would be for Spencer, being bullied by his abuser in front of a room full of people. It seems transparently obvious to both of us that such a move would be an obvious bullying tactic and for that reason you may not have even considered that possibility, but from what I can tell about Spencer's father, the man is so used to controlling and dominating his son, he will be blind to how he appears to others in that respect. He sounds like a narcissist at the very least and a narcissist won't be able to resist the urge to further dominate and control his child while putting himself in the spotlight as the caring, unjustly accused father." Martin exhaled angrily.

Gideon could tell the man was concerned and angry. Gideon also knew that Martin had just made an excellent point- one Gideon had never seriously entertained, because, to be honest, he hadn't wanted to entertain the idea.

Would Reid's father really be so cruel as to represent himself and rally for Reid to testify? Of course.

The law said the man had a right to confront his accuser, and in this case, his accuser was his son. Being a lawyer, representing himself would be a logical course of action for William Reid to take. Stupid and fool-hardy, but Gideon knew without a doubt that William Reid would be on the war path and would do that. As a profiler he was pretty sure that Martin had already figured out William Reid's intentions, and the brutal truth of the matter was enough to make Gideon want to punch a wall. He also knew that, as a narcissist, Reid's father would perceive this entire investigation as a personal attack against him and not as a means of keeping his child safe. He would want to demonize and emotionally shred his own child on the stand simply for putting him through the "inconvenience" of having to defend his own name. Gideon was as certain about that fact as he was of the fact that the Earth was spherical, or, as Reid had pointed out, "an oblate spheroid".

He had no doubt, after hearing the psychiatrist's concerns that William Reid would want to interrogate and bully Spencer on the stand. A sadistic child abuser such as Reid's father would not be able to control himself.

"With the tapes we have and the hospital files and photographs, I think we can keep Spencer out of the court room, but anything extra to help put this man away and strengthen our case can only help. Are you keeping a journal of Spencer's comments and behaviour?"

"No," Gideon admitted, sounding slightly guilty. "I didn't think of it. I mean, it seems obvious now that you mention it but..."

"I recommend you start a journal and include the date and time of any interaction where Reid displays excessive anxiety or talks about his parents or his past in any capacity. Also, Reid does want to share with us what happened to him, I am convinced of that, but he is justifiably afraid. Does he have paper and drawing supplies?"

"Yes. Crayons and markers. Lots of paper."

"Good. I'd suggest you make drawing a daily activity. Don't expect him to churn out disturbing pictures of abuse, but simply drawing might be a release and we might get lucky."

"Yes. I'll even draw with him."

"That's a great idea. Spencer will probably have some idea what you're up to, but start slow. Anything to get him into the spirit of creating pictures. He is a child and most children do like to express themselves visually. My guess is that Spencer has never really been given the opportunity to simply draw or colour like a regular child, so you might find he really enjoys drawing and that it gives him an outlet to vent his frustrations and anger. Especially as he is still in that cast and can't walk around and take care of himself like he is used to doing."

"Right."

"Okay. I just wanted to touch base. Again, I suggest you get him tested for any infections sooner rather than later. When does he get his cast off?"

"A few more weeks. Two and a half or so."

"You might want to take him in sooner. Depending on his stress level you might want to wait until he goes in to have it removed. I'll leave that up to you. You have my office number, but do you have my home number?"

"I don't believe so."

Martin gave Gideon his home number, speaking slowly and repeating the number as Gideon wrote it down. Gideon read it back, just to make sure he had recorded it accurately. He had.

"Any problems or concerns and you can phone me. Any time of the day or night. I'll phone back when I hear from my favourite prosecutor. Oh...and Jason?"

"Yeah?" Gideon said warily, almost afraid to hear what was coming next.

"You're doing an excellent job of caring for that little boy. I just want you to know that."

Gideon smiled. "Thanks. I love him like a son."

"I know. I can tell. Spencer is lucky to have you. He is an amazing kid."

"I know." Gideon said proudly, tone of voice resolute.

"I think he is going to be fine, in time. The child I saw today was one hell of a little fighter." Gideon could hear the admiration and respect in Richard Martin's voice. Knew the psychiatrist was impressed, not only with Reid's intelligence but with his compassion, as well.

"He is. Thanks for calling. I'll keep in touch." Gideon told the psychiatrist.

"Okay, then. Bye."

"Bye." Gideon disconnected and put the cordless back in its cradle and sat, smiling wanly for a moment. Martin's words echoed in his mind. _The child I saw today was one hell of a little fighter_

* * *

"Hey, buddy, whatcha doing?" Gideon asked as he stepped into the kid's room. Reid had propped himself up against his headboard with pillows and had dumped the crayons and markers out all over his bed. In his lap was the doodle pad and he was scribbling furiously.

"Drawing..." Reid trailed, obviously concentrating hard. His tongue was sticking out, just a little, a crease forming between his eyes. It was cute to see.

"Can I take a look?" Gideon asked. Reid nodded and turned the pad around so Gideon could see the drawing. The boy had clearly drawn Castor and Pollux with white crayon and had used the pink marker to draw their eyes and feet. He had used a shell pink crayon to for their tails and added lines with a graphite pencil. A pencil had also been used to outline the ears and strands of fur.

One of the rats was depicted, true to life, as being quite a bit larger and fatter than the other. Pollux, no doubt. Crayon-and-marker Pollux had been drawn with what appeared to be a sunflower seed in his thin, nimble fingers. Reid had even taken the time to dot the end of his pink little fingers with a grey marker to depict the animal's tiny, almost invisible nails. Castor had been drawn running on his metal wheel, the wheel expertly drawn in grey marker, each spoke carefully depicted and the animal's tiny, pink toes gently gripping the spokes. Reid had obviously tried to draw the rats to scale and had just as obviously worked hard to make the angles accurate to life. He was currently coloring in little square marks with various shades of brown marker. Wood chips, apparently.

"That is an excellent drawing, Reid. Very professional. Very detailed. I am impressed." Gideon said truthfully, smiling.

Reid beamed back at his guardian, obviously proud of himself.

"Can you tell which one is which?" The boy asked, after a moment.

"I can barely tell those two apart in real life but..." Gideon trailed, thought back. Reid had said the fat one was Pollux, the brighter of the twin stars, because he was less active and hid. Which apparently was a better survival strategy than running compulsively on a metal wheel.

"This guy, here..." Gideon said, pointing to the rat with the sunflower seed. "That's Pollux? And the guy on the wheel is Castor?"

"_Right_!" Reid exclaimed emphatically, sounding humorously like a kindergarten teacher praising a child for getting the alphabet right. Gideon smiled to himself.

"That's great. When you're done, can I have that? I think I will put it in a frame and put it in my office. If it's okay with you?"

"Okay, but I still have to draw the water bottle and the side of the cage and stuff," Reid said, sounding even more pleased with himself. "Oh...look. I also drew the plane we came here on." Reid flipped a page, and there it was. The plane they had indeed flown to Virginia on, depicted floating in a cerulean sky full of puffy white clouds.

"Very cool."

"Gideon?"

"Yeah, buddy?" Gideon said, still checking out Reid's artwork.

"Do you think maybe we could take some photos of Castor and Pollux? You know...to record their growing up period? And also, maybe of my room and me here, so I can remember being here when..."

"We'll take photos," Gideon said smoothly. "But you aren't going home for a long while, if ever. I don't want you to worry about that anymore, okay?"

"Okay." Reid said softly.

"So..." Gideon said, trying to jostle the boy out of the suddenly tense mood that had fallen over him. "Anything special you want to do tonight?"

"I was thinking... if it isn't too late and the stores are still open that maybe we could get a Nintendo and games? And maybe some books from the library?"

"It's past 5:30 buddy, so the library is probably closing soon, but the toy stores might be open a bit later. What about this? I make some calls and see if anything is open long enough for us to reasonably get down there, park, and select a few games without being rushed, and we go. Okay?"

"Okay." Reid said, smiling happily.

Gideon smiled back, and not for the first time since he had known Spencer Reid, was impressed with just how resilient the child in front of him really was.

* * *

**That's it for this chapter.** These chapters take me a good 2-3 hours to write because I research quite a bit (but don't use 1/100th of what I look up). Once again, I do apologize for prior typos and errors. I don't know about you guys, but typos and errors can totally take me out of a story, so I am sorry about them. I mentally kick myself when I look over past chapters and see obvious mistakes. There is no real excuse for them. My explanation is that I write quickly when I *do* manage to write and am usually in such a hurry to publish that I do a lousy job of editing. However, I will try to edit more thoroughly in the future. Like I said, there is no excuse for writing poorly or not editing one's work. Despite the typos and mistakes, please review. I love being complimented (who doesn't) but the constructive criticism I have received has also been inspiring and helped, I hope, to make me a better writer and hopefully this story and ones to come are better for it. Thanks guys. Oh, and my goal was to get to chapter 30 by Christmas. I am pretty sure I am going to make that goal.


	30. Chapter 30: Outburst

**Title:** Losing My Religion by Lexikal (Chapter Thirty)  
**Rating:** M for graphic violence against a child and language (in the first chapter, chapter 8 and chapter 10 so far. Chapter 28 has Reid discussing specific acts of abuse but not at length.)  
**Fandom:** Criminal Minds  
**Summary:** After two years away from his father and his father's violent rages, Spencer Reid, now ten, is returned home. Spencer has changed... but has William Reid?

**Author's Note: **I wanted to be at Chapter 30 by Christmas morning... oh well, got to Chapter 29. Was close. We are about three quarters through this fic now. Christmas day was of course busy and this is the first day I have had to write since pre-Christmas.

**Chapter Note:** Chapter 30 already! Yay! I actually looked up the names of the NES games online to make sure they were accurate (and also the release dates).

* * *

"_**All those writers who write about their childhood! Gentle God, if I wrote about mine you wouldn't sit in the same room with me." –Dorothy Parker**_

The local Toys R Us wasn't very local and even Reid decided it wasn't worth a 2 hour drive, but had brilliantly suggested Gideon phone Radio Shack, and, surprise surprise, the place was open until 9 and only a 20 minute drive. They had arrived at half past six and it had only taken Reid 30 minutes to select the games he wanted. The original NES console came with some combined game- "Super Mario Brothers" and something called "Duck Hunt", 2 controllers and a plastic orange gun. The entire system had been left at the front counter for later payment while Gideon browsed through the considerable selection of games and read the titles aloud alphabetically. Reid would occasionally say "that sounds interesting, what's that about?" or "can I take a look?" and Gideon had then handed him the game. Invariably the Nintendo cartridge had ended up in the small black plastic shopping cart provided for patrons at the front door. After 20 minutes and after the profiler had read off about 50 titles and taken stock of the huge pyramid of cartridges that filled the basket, Gideon had suggested that, maybe, just maybe, the number of games be reduced to a meager ten.

"Are you sure that's going to be enough? I can usually figure these things out pretty quickly." Reid asked innocently.

"Reid, have you ever played with a Nintendo before?" Gideon prompted, trying not to smile.

"Uh...no. But I have played arcade games before. Same thing, right?"

"I think ten or fewer for now but..."

"The game that comes with the system doesn't count, does it? Because I didn't choose that one and therefore..." Reid started, ever the debater.

"No. Ten that you choose," Gideon clarified, still smiling, mentally torturing David Rossi for suggesting a Nintendo in the first place. These video games were expensive.

Reid had smiled and nodded sheepishly and they had been left with (not including the Mario/Duck Hunt game that came with the system, of course): Battle Chess, Final Fantasy, The Legend of Zelda, Loopz, Marble Madness, Othello, Puzznic, Q*bert, Rad Racer and, last but not least, Toobin'. Gideon had put at least twice that many cartridges back on the shelf so he considered ten games (not including the 2 included with the console) to be a victory.

Reid, despite not being interested in role-playing games or racing games had yakked eagerly about playing both role-playing games and racing games on the drive home.

"You're going to eat some dinner, though, before I hook this thing up. What do you want?" Gideon's tone said it all. _Dinner is not up for debate._

"Do I still get a penny for every calorie I consume?" Reid asked innocently, obviously oblivious to the hefty bill the profiler had just paid for the kid's electronic entertainment some ten minutes earlier. Then again, Gideon had been the one to suggest the Nintendo, not Reid and so... damn it.

"Yes. Sure." Gideon said lightly. And honestly? If the video games kept Reid somewhat occupied they were worth every penny.

"Can we get Won-ton soup? Those won-tons are fine for me to chew. Very mushy. I like chow mein and lemon chicken..." The kid started, eyes shining excitedly.

"Won-ton it is. No chow mein or lemon chicken."

"I think my jaw has healed." Reid said, grinning manically before launching into a discussion about the theoretical awesomeness that was _The Legend of Zelda._

Gideon let him ramble. After all the stress of the past month, Reid's happy, excited chatter was more beautiful to hear than any piece by Beethoven or Mozart or Bach. As long, of course, as the kid stopped rambling eventually. So far this Nintendo thing was paying for itself.

* * *

Reid was sacked out on the couch, grinning and slurping up Won-ton soup. On the table in front of him was a deep fried banana from the Thai restaurant adjacent to the Chinese restaurant at the local mini mall and he had magnanimously informed his guardian that he liked deep fried Thai bananas even if he didn't particularly care for the fruit "normally". That deep fried banana was also full of at least 300 calories by Reid's estimation and the soup was 400 calories. Had to be at least 400 calories.

"You really did grow up in Vegas, didn't you?" Gideon said, trying to suppress a laugh as he listened to Reid somehow earn seven bucks for eating take out of his choosing.

"Huh? Why?"

"Never mind..." Gideon trailed, trying to remain straight faced.

Reid shrugged, drained the Styrofoam bowl of the last of its broth, and got to work on the banana.

"This is really good," Reid said with his mouth full of banana. "You want a bite, Gid-yunnn?"

There it was again, the simplistic Gid-yun.

"No, but can I ask you something?"

Reid shrugged, swallowed the fruit in his mouth and nodded.

"You used to call me Gid-yun all the time and now you call me Gideon. You enunciate my name properly now."

"I never called you _Gid-yun_." Reid said slowly, a half smile on his face, expression dubious.

"You just did, just a few seconds ago." Gideon pointed out patiently.

"That's probably because I was eating." Reid replied.

"Yeah, but before... when you first came to live with me, until recently..." Gideon inquired.

"Um...maybe because it was harder to pronounce with my teeth missing?" Reid said innocently, no trace of animosity in his voice.

Yeah. That made sense. Gideon smiled gently and mentally kicked himself. The kid's suggestion made sense, and yet he had seemed to pronounce other words properly.

He decided not to push it.

"I'm almost done my banana!" Reid announced winningly and made a show of stuffing the rest of the dessert into his mouth in one go. "Hey, Gideon, did you know that nearly all bananas come from two wild species? Musa acuminata and Musa..."

"Reid, please swallow what's in your mouth before talking. That looks really gross, kid."

Reid stopped speaking and grinned wildly, making a juvenile show of displaying the contents in his mouth. Gideon rolled his eyes, which got an immediate reaction from the little kid on his couch. Reid laughed loudly, spraying small chunks of partially chewed, greasy yellow fruit onto himself and the couch and part of the floor...

"Reid, come on, stop laughing...that's enough..."

Reid continued to laugh. If anything he laughed harder, face turning fuchsia.

"Are you choking?" Gideon asked sternly. He was pretty sure the kid wasn't choking. Choking people didn't laugh that hard.

As expected, Reid shook his head to indicate that he wasn't, in fact, choking. He swallowed and then burst out giggling again. Obviously the boy was excited and relieved that the stress of the day was over and done with. Adrenaline crash.

"Reid, if you don't settle down, I'll wait until tomorrow to set up the Nintendo. If eating a banana gets you this hyper, I think the video games can wait."

"But you said I could play the games after dinner!" Reid whined petulantly, sounding remarkably like the ten year old he was.

"I did, but..." _What the Hell, Gideon. Let him enjoy himself. Days like this don't pop up on the radar all that often._

"But you said..." Reid protested again, cutting Gideon off.

"Yes, but if you are this energetic you're going to mop the floor with me." Gideon said, smiling.

"Huh? What do you mean?" Reid looked utterly confused.

"These games are two player, right?"

"Yes... you mean you're going to play with me? What game do you want to play? Want to play Othello? Or want to play something else? How about we play Mario Brothers? You can be Luigi, he is the second player, and I, of course, will be Mario because it is my Nintendo and..."

"Sure, that sounds great, kiddo."

"Gideon?" Reid sounded suddenly uneasy. The profiler glanced over at the boy and nodded to indicate that he had heard him.

"Yeah. What's up?"

"It is my Nintendo, right?"

"Yes, Reid, it is _your_ Nintendo."

Reid smiled happily. "Oh, and Gideon?"

"Yeah?"

"You know how to hook it up, right?"

"I think I can manage it." Gideon said seriously.

* * *

Reid was actually pretty good at video games, despite not playing them before. It turned out that what the kid referred to as "arcade games" was in actuality slot machines and craps tables. How Reid had managed to finagle his way inside a casino was anybody's guess, but actual video games designed for people not yet old enough to drive was something entirely new to him. _Apparently._

"How did you know there was a secret warp area there?" Gideon asked as Reid's digital avatar disappeared over the apparent top of the screen only to end up in some netherworld of giant green "warp" tubes.

"I didn't know..." Reid said, tongue jutting from the corner of his mouth in concentration.

"How did you get there again?" Gideon asked, as "Mario" disappeared down one of the warp holes.

"I'm not telling you. Remember, you said if I beat you, I get five dollars?"

"I said...did I say that?" Gideon asked tiredly.

"Yeah... when Rossi phoned 36 minutes ago..." Reid muttered, eyes never leaving the television screen but somehow still managing to glean the time from the clock. It was six minutes to ten. They had been playing for two hours, but Reid's eyes were eerily lacking any visible signs of fatigue. In fact, apparently the Nintendo Entertainment System imbued its players with supernatural concentration and energy, as well as removing pesky distractions, like the need to blink.

"I bet Rossi five bucks that you couldn't beat me, I think that's what I said... I never said I'd give you five dollars if you beat me." Gideon said, feeling childish for arguing about this with a ten year old.

"Yes, but you know as well as I do that if you give Rossi five bucks he will just gloat. Besides, Rossi doesn't need five bucks. He has lots of money. Remember all those loud, annoying toys he got me? Like that fingerprint kit with the powder? Surely he knows that's going to cause a mess... Anyway, if the bet comes down to whether or not I can beat you, shouldn't I get the money, if I actually beat you? Rossi already knows I'll win, which is why he made that bet to begin with, either that or he wanted to try and emasculate you subtly by insinuating that someone a quarter of a century younger than you is more proficient in video games than you are. Take your pick." Reid was smiling now, just a little, his voice confident, almost smug. Clearly the kid had cut deals to make money before and was a smooth talker, despite being socially awkward in most other situations. Still, to Gideon's dismay, his eyes remained glued to the screen, swimming behind his oversized glasses.

Gideon had quickly read through the set up guide and taken note of the so-called medical risks mentioned briefly in bold lettering on the pamphlet before hooking up the console.

"That applies to individuals with epilepsy, and I don't have epilepsy." Reid had informed his foster father impatiently after Gideon had read aloud the medical disclaimer not two hours earlier.

"You sure you don't have some sort of epilepsy?" Gideon now chided lightly, watching the young, intent face stare mesmerized at the television screen.

"Shhh... don't talk... I need to concentrate..." Reid said, eyes narrowing as he manipulated the digital entity over brick shelves which hung in the air and over slow-moving turtles which killed Italian-American plumbers on contact. Obviously the world of the Mario Brothers defied the laws of physics and biology, but oddly enough Reid hadn't yet objected to any of the scientific inaccuracies in the game.

"You sure you don't have some sort of epilepsy? Because your glassy eyes and lack of blinking would suggest an absence seizure..." Gideon prompted.

"Gideon!" There was a loud, annoying noise which apparently indicated that Reid, for lack of a better word, had virtually "died". "That's not cool! You were trying to distract me!"

"All's fair in love and my war, my friend..." Gideon said glibly, grabbing his controller and pressing start.

Not five seconds into his run as Luigi (Mario's ectomorphic, slightly younger fraternal twin brother), Reid had launched into a wordy discourse about the benefits of acetyl-L-carnitine and coenzyme Q-10 supplements in the human diet, their effects on mitochondria and energy production and, in short, had didactically insinuated that his guardian was an "old man".

"Oh, it's on, Reid. It's on now, kid!" Gideon said, feigning indignation.

"When I am fairly certain you aren't suffering from some form of mitochondrial myopathy, then it _may _be on..." Reid goaded pleasantly. Apparently the kid still had a lot to learn about trash-talking.

"Not sure what that means," Gideon mumbled, getting into the game now, trying to replicate the moves he had seen Reid employ during his turns. "But I have a feeling it was an insult."

"Just play, already, Gideon." Reid muttered, already entering video game withdrawal. "Unless your hands are starting to cramp and you want to go to bed to recharge. No pun intended."

"That's it. Neither one of us is going to bed until I beat you." The profiler muttered offhandedly. Immediately, he mentally kicked himself. Reid would take him at his word and prolong video game night into video game _week_. Great.

"Fine. But if we're going to play for longer than about another hour, I think we're going to need coffee or something..."

"Nice try, kiddo. If you fall asleep, I win by default."

"Apparently neither one of us is going to bed until you die of sepsis caused by prolonged sleep deprivation. I would just like to be caffeinated until that tragic moment." Reid mumbled under his breath.

"You are so dead. I am going to save that princess from that... what's her name? Princess _Peach_?"

"Yeah. Princess Peach. She's being held hostage by Bowser." Reid confirmed.

"Stupid name..." Gideon muttered, jumping over a quickly-moving turtle with brilliant orange spikes sticking out of its carapace. Apparently some devious uber-turtle floating around in a smiling cloud was chucking said minions down to earth in a demonic plot to take out the pesky Mario Brothers.

"It's _not_ a stupid name. It's a mythical world. How is it a stupid name?" Reid protested loudly.

"Look, I am trying not to get killed by these spiked turtles and..." Gideon hit one with a fireball and smiled when it disappeared off the screen.

"They aren't turtles; they are Bowser's minions, the Koopas." Reid announced. "Turtles don't get chucked out of clouds..."

Gideon paused the game and turned to face his foster son. "Look, I thought you told me you had never played this game before?"

"I haven't. I used to watch the TV show... The Super Mario Brothers Super Show!"

"Riiiiight." Gideon muttered and unpaused the game. "If I end up dying, we're playing Battle Chess. You already have an advantage."

* * *

They played until 11:30. Once the Battle Chess cartridge was inserted, Gideon felt the tables turn, and Reid was right. It was fun to see the chess pieces come to life and slaughter those of the opponent.

Reid proclaimed loudly after being beaten 8 times in a row that he was tired and needed his sleep. Gideon nodded, turned the television off and helped the kid get to the washroom so he could do his business and wash his face, brush his teeth, all that fun stuff.

"You want to sleep on the couch tonight, or in your own bed?" Gideon asked as he handed Reid a new t-shirt and turned to give the kid privacy as he changed.

"Maybe the couch."

"You want to play Nintendo, don't you? The moment I get upstairs, that television is going to be turned on, isn't it?"

"Hypothetically, would that be a problem?" Reid queried innocently. His hair was starting to come in, a nice, fuzzy cover to his head. Nice to see the kid with at least the promise of hair.

"Hypothetically, no. In reality..."

"We don't have anything to do tomorrow, do we?"

"Reid, you're ten years old. You should probably be going to bed before midnight. Just on principle."

"It's going to be midnight in ten minutes." Reid began, but Gideon could see that his eyelids were already starting to droop.

"Humour me. I'll feel really neglectful if I wake up in the morning and you're still awake and obsessively playing video games."

"Yes but..."

"And you said not 15 minutes ago that you were tired and ready for bed." Check mate.

"Fine." Reid huffed. Gideon nodded and helped the kid get arranged on his cushions and pillows so he could sleep.

"Big duvet or the thinner blanket?" Gideon asked when Reid was relatively comfortable.

"Thin blanket. It's too hot for the duvet."

"Noted." Gideon pulled the blanket out of the kid's closet and returned to the bed. Gently tucked the boy genius in as much as his cast would allow, kissed the top of his head.

"I had fun tonight, kiddo. We'll play again."

"Okay." Reid's eyes, as expected, were already fluttering shut.

"You want Jason?" Gideon asked, spying the stuffed animal lying on the floor.

"Mmm." Reid muttered. Gideon took that as a yes, and handed the kid his toy.

"I'll leave your door open a crack. And the night lights and planets on, okay?"

There was no response. Spencer Reid was fast asleep, a contented little smile on his face. It was nice to see. There was a low, metallic squeak as Castor hopped onto his wheel and began to lazily spin.

"Don't wake him up, little guy." Gideon said gently to the rodent. At the sound of his voice, Pollux popped his head out of the makeshift "house" Reid had made out of a used ice cream container and approached the bars nervously. He sniffed the profiler's fingers curiously, before licking one.

"I guess you guys got left out a bit today. Want to come out for a bit?" Gideon whispered.

Pollux stared at the adult human male towering before him with beady, pink, curious eyes. Something about that intent, mammalian gaze gave Gideon the distinct impression that the rodent in front of him was perfectly capable of understanding the full complexities and nuances of the English language. _Jesus, Jason, you really need to get some sleep._

"Okay." Gideon said, and gently lifted the rat out of its cage. Castor, forever oblivious to almost everything except his obsessive preoccupation with the running wheel, continued to spin.

* * *

Gideon was in bed by two. He had reminisced about the day's events and started his diary, detailing Reid's behaviour and comments. The latter half of the day, thank god, had been pretty smooth and uneventful. As he wrote in the diary and sipped coffee, Pollux sat on his shoulder, alternating between sniffing the side of his head and washing his face with his tiny, pink hands.

When he was finished he had carefully returned the rat to his cage, put the diary in his desk in his study and locked the drawer and taken a shower. He'd been asleep for what felt like ten minutes when he heard a crash and then Reid's loud, wailing sob.

He was up and out of bed instantly. Early morning light was slicing through the venetian blinds like knives, creating sharp, painful little jabs at the back of the profiler's eyes. The bedside clock said that it was, impossibly, almost 8 a.m.

The cry became louder, a long, screeching wail. Gideon ran down the stairs. Reid was lying awkwardly on the floor, sniffling, wiping his nose.

"Reid? Buddy!"

It was clear what had happened. Reid had tried to get himself out of bed and into his chair, like he had tried to do on many occasions unsuccessfully, but this time he had fallen on the ground. On his face. His nose was bleeding slightly and he raised the palms of his hands to show Gideon how raw and red they were.

Gideon hissed in sympathy and quickly picked the kid up and placed him in his chair.

"I see... Reid... you're okay...that's just rug burn."

"I know, but I had to pee and I didn't want to wake you up by calling." Reid said, still sniffling and wiping his nose with his finger, apparently more embarrassed than actually hurt.

Ordinarily this was never an issue, because ordinarily Gideon had always been up earlier than his young charge and ready to help him get in and out of his chair if he needed help. Which he almost always did.

A thought occurred to Gideon. He knew Reid would balk at it like crazy, but it made actual sense.

That could wait until after breakfast though. In the meantime, Reid had to pee.

* * *

After Reid had peed, brushed his teeth, gotten changed and was sitting in his usual spot on the couch holding a large bowl full of an odd assortment of alphagetti, apple sauce and pudding, Gideon decided to try his luck.

"So..." the profiler began, taking a bite of his own poached eggs. "I was thinking maybe we find a store that sells...kids' stuff...close to home and maybe outfit your room with a monitor so you don't have any more mishaps like this morning?"

"Outfit my room with a monitor? What sort of _monitor_?" Reid asked sceptically, shovelling a rather disgusting looking combination of tinned pasta and chocolate pudding into his mouth. Considering how picky the kid was, what he did end up eating was something of a surprise.

"Well, you know... I was thinking we get some equipment for your room so if you have trouble in the night... say... you need to pee or something... you can call for me without having to yell loudly. I'll have a receiver in my room, so I can hear you and..."

"You want to put a _baby monitor_ in my room?" Reid asked, sounding outright scandalized. "You want to put a monitor designed for a helpless infant in my bedroom? Besides the fact that that is an outright..." Reid trailed, apparently lost for words. "An outright violation of my privacy, why now? I have been here 24 days and logically, I am healthier and more capable than I was 24 days ago so... I don't see why I need something in my room designed for a baby!"

Obviously, Reid was insulted by the baby-connection.

"Reid, 24 days ago you were on so many pain killers that you slept for much longer stretches than you do now, and I wasn't as sleep deprived so I was up before you were in the mornings and this wasn't an issue. I don't think you're a baby. But I'd rather you not have to scream at the top of your lungs to get my attention or end up falling flat on your face again simply because you have to use the toilet. And I thought this suggestion would be perceived as less offensive than offering you one of those devices to pee into with the attached urine reservoir that we saw at the medical supplies store."

Reid, obviously remembering said device, began to blush. Nodded quickly in agreement, or possibly to shut his guardian up.

"Couldn't we get, you know... walkie talkies or something?"

"This is basically the same thing, Reid. Just more economical. The cheaper walkie talkies are for kids to play with and don't have a good, clear range. The professional walkie talkies are very expensive. We don't need those. And again, they use batteries. Baby monitors were designed for situations like these..."

"I thought baby monitors were designed to alert new parents to the cries of their newborn babies?" Reid said, sulkily.

"Look, we'll just use it until you're out of the cast and have some mobility and can get around."

"What do you mean?" Reid pressed, eyes narrowing.

"Come on, buddy. You don't expect to have that cast taken off and then, boom, be running around like Speedy Gonzales? The injury to your leg was really severe, you know that. You're going to need at least a little bit of physical therapy to get back into shape."

Reid exhaled, obviously frustrated by the entire situation.

"So...the monitor. I was thinking maybe later today, we could go check them out and..."

"No. I don't want anyone to see me. They'll see me in this chair and know that baby monitor is for me."

"So? You'll never have to see them again." Gideon knew this was probably not a point the kid would back down on. Being embarrassed was apparently the worst of the worst of all possible realities as far as Spencer Reid was concerned.

"What about that delivery guy that got us stuff from blockbuster?" Gideon finally suggested. Reid shrugged. Sighed.

"What was his name again? Kevin?"

"Something like that." Gideon confirmed. Was surprised Reid had remembered the name, as the young man hadn't officially been introduced as far as Gideon could remember.

"I liked his t-shirt." Reid said pointedly, as if that explained why he had remembered the name of someone he hadn't been introduced to and for all intents and purposes had paid less than no attention to. Obviously Reid had overheard Gideon say the kid's name at the door, and had been paying more attention than the profiler had given him credit for.

"I don't remember his shirt."

"It was the one that said _I found this humerus_, and had that silk-screened image of a human humerus?"

Gideon vaguely remembered the shirt, come to think of it. He hadn't really paid any attention to it at the time.

"Yes, see, wasn't that funny? We'll phone him."

"If we don't, you're going to drag me to the store to get one anyway, are you?" Reid sighed loudly.

"I think it's a good idea for now. Just until you no longer need help maneuvering around the house."

"Fine. Ask him on the phone if he can wear another shirt, something entertaining, but not the same shirt as last time..."

Gideon sighed and rolled his eyes.

"You just about finished that?" Gideon asked Reid patiently, indicating the bowl of chocolate pudding, apple sauce and tinned pasta. Reid's face was covered in tomato sauce and chocolate pudding. For someone who was so adamantly opposed to being seen as an infant, his eating skills left much to be desired.

"I sort of want to work on the rest of this... you see, I have partitioned the letters I need for 5 different elemental symbols in Latin. You see, and this is _funny_, I have N, A, C and L lined up here, right? So I can make Sodium and Chlorine, see, but together NaCl is the formula for table salt, you see what I am doing here? And see, over here, I have the letters C, P, H and P and if I turn the Ps upside down they sort of look like sixes, huh? So then C6H6 becomes benzene, see what I am doing?"

"I have no idea what you're doing, Reid. Would you like a washcloth for your face?" Gideon said, trying not to burst out laughing at the sight of one Spencer Reid.

"Huh? What do I need a washcloth for?"

Gideon shook his head. Never mind. Just... it wasn't worth it.

* * *

"Reid, Kevin is here." Gideon called from the front door.

"Is he wearing a new t-shirt?" Reid called back. Since breakfast Reid had been on the couch playing Nintendo. Gideon had set the console up within the kid's reach so he could change the game cartridges as needed.

"Yes, he is wearing a new shirt." Gideon called back, mouthing an "I'm sorry"to the young man standing at the door. Kevin Roderick just smiled.

"I was a weird little kid too, once." The young man said softly, earning a chuckle from the profiler.

"Is the new shirt entertaining, though?" Reid called back.

"I don't know if you'll find it entertaining. Why don't you come take a look?"

The "new" shirt was an image of Buzz Aldrin holding a stein of beer and smiling extravagantly. In puffy paint letters was the slogan: _I've got my Buzz on!_

"I'll come look when I am finished this level. I can't pause right now." Reid called from the living room, sounding much more stressed than someone who had only been on the planet for 10 years should have sounded.

"Reid, come and look or don't. Kevin is not going to stand here all day while you make up your mind."

There was a noise which almost, impossibly, sounded like the kid swearing under his breath and then: "Can you come and help me?"

"Yeah..." Gideon muttered and walked back to the living room to help Reid back into his chair. It would be so much easier for both of them when the kid was at least out of the cast. Gideon pushed Reid back to the door and the kid looked at the shirt quizzically, eyebrows knitting together.

"I don't get it." Reid confessed, finally making eye contact with Kevin, the wearer of unusual T-shirts.

"Well, this is Buzz Aldrin," Kevin began, pointing to his chest.

"I know it's Buzz Aldrin. But why is that funny? And why is he holding a mug of beer?"

"Reid, um... when adults get mildly inebriated, they sometimes refer to it as being buzzed. Get it now?" Gideon said.

Reid chewed the inside of his cheek and regarded the T-shirt again. "If you have to explain a joke, it's usually not very funny. And anyway, there is no such thing as being mildly inebriated, Gideon. You're either inebriated or you're not."

"Well, I thought it was funny." Gideon said dryly, handing the young man a ten dollar bill for his trouble.

Kevin pocketed the money and smiled down at Reid.

"Well...it was nice to meet you...Reid is it? Nice to meet you, Reid."

"You too..." Reid said softly, usual enthusiasm absent. "Next time wear an entertaining shirt, though. Not one that showcases your acceptance of your own escalating alcoholism."

"Reid!" Gideon sputtered, not quite believing his ears. Kevin stared at the little boy in the wheelchair wearing the stained Ninja Turtle t-shirt, face covered in tomato sauce and chocolate pudding and eyes bloodshot and glassy behind oversized glasses, and cracked up laughing.

"Reid. Apologize right now. That was very rude." Gideon said sternly, still upset with Reid's behaviour despite the fact that it had apparently gone over well.

"It's okay...he has a point." Kevin breathed, obviously trying to stop giggling.

"I want him to learn that he can't say whatever he wants to people. That is nice of you to be so obliging, Kevin, but _Spencer_ needs to apologize. Right _now_."

Reid folded his skinny arms over his chest and stared balefully up at both Gideon and Kevin.

"Reid, you can apologize for being rude, or you can go to your room and think about how to address adults for an hour."

"I'll address adults how they deserve to be addressed," Reid spat out between clenched teeth. "And _idiots_ that think getting drunk is a good use of their time deserve nothing but my contempt."

"Okay, that's one hour that I won't have to listen to you swear at the Nintendo. Do you want to apologize now, or go for two?" Gideon pressed. He knew, on some level, that he was being a little too hard on Reid and that Reid was testing him and trying to find out what the limits of their still fuzzy relationship were, but at the same time the stress of the past 24 days had taken its toll. Gideon was tired and worried and stressed and Reid was drained, miserable, sick of being in his chair and probably sick of a lot of things. Gideon knew that. Also knew that the kid was bright enough to at least pretend to apologize, and bright enough to know how and why some social courtesies were important.

"He can screw off. You can screw off, and so can your damned baby monitor." Reid spit out angrily, voice rising. Reid was in that tentative emotional spot between anger and tears.

"Look...really, I understand. Not everyone finds beer humour funny..." Kevin said uneasily. Gideon sighed and decided to free their delivery boy from his misery.

"Kevin, I am sorry for my foster son's insolence. He is not usually like this. Thank you for your patience with us today." Gideon said, as calmly as he could, trying to ignore the holes Reid was trying to burn in his forehead with his eyes.

The young man nodded nervously and quickly departed. Gideon carefully, gently closed the front door and pulled the chain across. He would not blow up and yell. That was what Reid was used to and expected on some level, and probably what he was terrified of happening, sooner or later. It was important to remain calm.

"Do you want to come and talk to me right now or..." Gideon began, trying to keep the condescending tone out of his voice and not altogether succeeding.

"Screw you!" Reid shot out, eyeing the bag at the front door that contained his baby monitor.

"Okay," Gideon sighed and mentally counted to ten. Took a deep breath and tried to imagine the fear and anger and grief and embarrassment the kid felt daily. Tried to remember that he wasn't merely being a brat because he had nothing better to do.

"You can go to your room, or you can come and talk to me like a grown up and..."

"_Fuck you_!" Reid spat, eyes blurring with tears. He angrily wiped at his cheeks, apparently even more upset by the sudden biological urge to cry.

"I guess you want to spend some time in your room, then." Gideon said calmly, staring the boy in the eyes. Reid's lip wavered and he clamped down on it with his teeth, hard. Hard enough to make it bleed if he didn't let up soon. His small hands were balled into angry fists.

"Okay, then, let's go to your room..." Gideon said, stepping over to push the kid. Reid shouted angrily that he could do it and began to clumsily wheel himself away, muttering obscenities under his breath like a furious trucker. Gideon heard the door to his room being pried open, heard the kid clumsily maneuver himself into said room and then the loud crash as the door was intentionally slammed as hard as he could slam it while still being confined to the chair.

"So much for the Nintendo easing some of his frustration..." Gideon said aloud, to no one in particular. He'd let the kid calm down, then go talk to him.

* * *

That's it for chapter 30. Please review! You can skip the following note if you want as it has nothing to do with the above story, per se...

As long as I update regularly I will be finished before I know it and can get back to work on "This is my Last Resort". Also, I had the idea of writing a Criminal Minds (taking place in season 4 or so) and "Saw" (the movie) cross-over, where Reid and a few of the other team members get abducted by Jigsaw and Gideon comes back to help profile, but I am not committing to anything just yet. If I do write that, I will start after everything else is finished. Would anyone be interested in reading something like that? Oh yes, regarding the Nintendo, I realize there were multiple North American bundle packages released, but I didn't want to have to write Reid rambling about the pros and cons of each and also, I don't live in the States and am not sure which sets would have been available at fictitious Radio Shacks in August of 1990 so I wrote the kid getting "The Action Set" (released in North America in 1988) consisting of the zapper (the little orange gun), the console, two controllers and the dual game pack (Duck Hunt/Super Mario Bros. ). The NES Action Set was the first video game system I ever got and will forever hold a special place in my heart... yeah. Enough rambling out of me. Okay, please review.

Oh yeah, for those interested in free brain training, you guys might want to check out a site I like called cognitivefun dot net. It's not the best brain training site on the web but it is free and does should how you compare against other users in a variety of sub-tests, so there's that. Until next time...


	31. Chapter 31: Hobgoblin

**Title:** Losing My Religion by Lexikal (Chapter Thirty One)  
**Rating:** M for graphic violence against a child and language (in the first chapter, chapter 8 and chapter 10 so far. Chapter 28 has Reid discussing specific acts of abuse but not at length.)  
**Fandom:** Criminal Minds  
**Summary:** After two years away from his father and his father's violent rages, Spencer Reid, now ten, is returned home. Spencer has changed... but has William Reid?

**Author's Note: **Hopefully you're enjoying this story. I might have been a little hasty when I said this would be over by Chapter 40, however, we are more than two/thirds of the way through. Hard to predict exactly how many chapters it will be, even though I have the story plotted out in my head to some extent. Also, chapter notes will now be at the end of each chapter so you don't have to scroll over them, and to preserve the continuity of the story. Like Reid, I can ramble sometimes.

* * *

"_**Where there is anger, there is always pain underneath." – Eckhart Tolle**_

Gideon knocked on Reid's door for the second time in an hour.

"Leave me alone!" Reid snarled through the door. "I don't want to speak to you for a week!"

Gideon rolled his eyes. "Reid, do you know how long a week is..." The profiler had spoken before he'd really thought about what he was saying. Reid was acting so much like a typical, angry child that it was hard not to see him, right at this moment, as a typical, angry child.

"Yes, a week is 168 hours or 10,080 minutes or 604,800 seconds or 6,048 kiloseconds or 604,800 to the power of 6 if you want that in microseconds or... do you want me to continue, or are you still under the mistaken delusion that I am an inferior mind that needs to accept your clumsy, bumbling logic simply because you are chronologically older than I am?" Reid's voice was still shrill, still upset. Gideon sighed.

"I will speak to you in an hour. 60 minutes. I suppose that would be..." Gideon trailed for a second, mentally multiplying 60 by itself. "...3,600 seconds."

"Gee, the amazing behavioural profiler can also do simple arithmetic slightly faster than Koko the _gorilla_! Will wonders never cease?"

"I am going upstairs to read and take some time for myself. I will see you at..." Gideon glanced down at his watch. It was only 10:38 a.m. This day could stretch on forever at this rate.

"I'll come back and knock again at 11:40 a.m. and see if you are ready to talk then."

"Go already! Stop wasting my time! I am trying to meditate!" Reid shrieked through the door.

Obviously he was upset. He'd had a very stressful past month, to put it mildly, and yesterday had obviously hit a number of deep, painful nerves. It only made sense that the kid would need some time to decompress and express his anger after everything that had happened. But that last comment had been literally screamed so shrilly that Gideon had to bite his tongue hard to keep from laughing.

The kid had to meditate. Indeed.

* * *

Gideon went into his den and unlocked his desk drawer and pulled the log book of Reid's behaviour and comments out. Grabbed a pen and a book entitled "The Greatest Miracle in the World" by someone with the unfortunate name of Og Mandino, a slim volume he'd picked up at a yard sale for a quarter a few years earlier and never read. Flipped through the book as if nothing was wrong, as if Reid wasn't sulking in his room, and from the sound of things, playing handball with his Rubik's cube. He climbed the stairs to his room, replayed Reid's behaviour through his head. He'd log the day's events, so far, and then decompress a bit with whatever miracle Mr. Mandino had to offer.

Right now Spencer was just too upset and angry to reason with and trying to push it would lead to nothing but screaming and tears, that much was obvious. Gideon was pretty sure the blow up not only had to do with Reid's upsetting day yesterday and the shame and anger and fear he felt around the topics that had been publically discussed, but he also, apparently, felt humiliated and literally infantilized by the introduction of the baby monitor.

Gideon wrote his observations slowly, choosing his words carefully and trying to convey the events of the morning as objectively as possible, including the kid's tumble onto his face while trying to get himself into his chair so that he could do something as simple and personal as urinate without alerting his guardian. The profiler wrote his suspicions in red ink, to differentiate from the black, objective, non-speculative events of the day. When he was finished he reread his comments and sighed.

The initial anger he'd felt towards Reid for his rude and out-of-line comments had faded away to a sad, pensive sympathy. It was easy to see why Reid was on edge and lashing out, but coddling him right now would simply be sending the wrong message, too. The boy really did need to meditate and reflect on his actions and his behaviour and he needed to know that his foster father was mature enough and stable enough to provide boundaries and limits when he, being a child, inevitably lashed out or stepped out of emotional and cultural bounds. Unfortunately, Gideon doubted Reid was actually reflecting on his behaviour but rather, in typical little-kid fashion, sulking and feeling misunderstood and miserable. And probably making quite a few dents in the dry wall, if he was still throwing things at the wall.

Gideon opened the paperback and began to read. Hopefully by the time he'd read enough to decide if the book was worth finishing, Reid would have calmed down enough to carry on a semi-mature conversation.

* * *

Reid sat up in his chair as much as the damn spica cast would allow (which meant that looking around was harder than it should have been) and tried to reign in his anger. His fingernails had cut, just a little bit, into the skin of his palms. He touched the crescent moon shaped indentions lightly and smiled.

Good.

Thought about the baby monitor at the door just waiting to be installed in his room like he was some freak. Even when he had been a baby, he'd never had a stupid monitor in his room. He'd never needed one. Only idiots needed to be monitored 24-7, for Christ's sake.

Reid considered his situation. He didn't want to talk to Gideon. He would sit in his chair for the next week and sleep in his chair and wheel himself to the bathroom. He wouldn't need Gideon for anything.

The thought, though, the stupid thought had been circling through his head like a vulture since he'd heard Gideon on the stairs going up to his room was: _he is going to be back to talk to you, and remember that wine in the kitchen? In the cabinet next to fridge? A bit of that wine would sure take the edge off this entire, stupid day._

He knew it was a dumb idea, but the craving was there, a pulsating, real thing; a living thing. He'd had a few sips of wine and even stronger stuff before, back at home, when he'd been "upset" and he'd always felt better afterwards. For a little while, anyway.

His brain, the part he mentally conversed with silently to come to decisions, seemed to be in full agreement. _Think about it, Spencer. Gideon drinks wine every so often to relax. You know he does. He lives alone and the bottle is open and it wasn't the first time you saw it 3 weeks ago. But 2 weeks ago or so, it had been opened, remember? And you're the only person here besides him, so he was drinking at home, alone. And he probably was drinking because you stressed him out. Not a lot. Just a little. To take the edge off. So go and have a little bit, too. Just a bit, to take the edge off. And then put it back. No harm, no foul._

It seemed to make perfect sense. "Yeah. And if he does find out, so what? Wants to treat me like a baby, I'll show him a damned baby." Reid said aloud, looking at his rats.

They didn't seem to be paying attention, but Spencer Reid knew that they had heard every word, and in typical rat fashion were being cool about the entire thing. No doubt, they were in full agreement. They were rats after all, and rats hadn't come as far as they had over the years by always playing by the rules.

"Yeah. I know. The entire thing is stupid." Reid said to the rats, as if carrying on a conversation. "I'm not a baby, but he treats me like a baby. I'll show him how babies act if that's what he wants."

Castor was staring at him, hanging upside down off the bars. Pollux was chilling in the ferret hammock he'd taken a liking to sleeping in, apparently oblivious to his human master. Reid glanced down at his watch. Gideon said he'd be back in an hour, and that had been just five minutes ago. Reid smiled sourly, opened his door quietly and gently, as quietly as he could, rolled himself to the kitchen.

A nagging, logical part of the prodigy's brain kept at him: _This is stupid. Getting drunk is stupid and is not going to make you feel better. You know this is stupid. Do you even know why you're upset in the first place, really upset? Do you even care why you're upset?_

"When I want your advice, super-ego, I'll ask for it. Right now I am listening to Id. He's more fun than you anyway." Reid said softly as he gently and carefully pulled open the drawer containing Gideon's bottle of cabernet sauvignon. Reid inspected the bottle for a moment, grinning angrily.

"14.8 percent alcohol." Reid mumbled, trying to calculate how much he would have to consume to legally be over the blood alcohol content limit for driving. He began to scan the back of the bottle, a description of the history of the makers of this particular brand of wine (something called St. Clement) before spotting the troll.

It was so unexpected he almost dropped the bottle of wine. Slowly, he let his heart slide back down his throat and into its rightful place between his lungs, put the bottle back and gently reached for the bottle of ale. Tried to keep from laughing. The idea of Jason Gideon drinking this stuff was hard to imagine.

In his hand was a brown bottle of something called "Hobgoblin Traditionally Crafted Legendary Ruby Beer" and the label featured an impish looking hobgoblin- obviously- in a red stocking cap carrying a battle axe and arrow quiver and looking devious as all get out. Reid giggled and grabbed for another bottle that caught his eye. This one was called "King Goblin" and was apparently made by the same brewery, Wychwood. It featured an almost identical goblin as the Hobgoblin ale but this goblin was dressed in blue, not red, and the beer was a hefty 6.6%. Reid flipped it over and began to read, whispering the words.

"King Goblin. Brewed only on a Full Lunar Moon. As the moon casts its eerie light over the shadowy old Eagle Brewery, a magical brew gurgles forth from the casks. A beer enlivened by the energies of the universe, when the elements are converging into a harmonious alignment. Truly a brew fit for a celestial majesty." Reid stopped reading, at serious risk of dropping everything and laughing hysterically. Where had Gideon found this stuff?

Smiling, the kid dumped the bottle into the pillow case he had brought with him from his room, then added two more bottles of the stuff and the bottle of hobgoblin as well as something called "Ginger Beard: Fiery Alcoholic Ginger Beer".

Hell, if Gideon found out, it wouldn't even really matter. Kids used to drink Root Beer and Root Beer historically had contained some alcohol, hence the name. Hell, historically kids were getting married and were considered adults by twelve or thirteen anyway, so Gideon could stuff his objections. Anyway, Gideon probably wouldn't find out. And if he did, Reid knew it would be long after Gideon got tired of him and sent him back home or his father came for him and took him home. Either way, didn't matter.

Reid stuffed the pillowcase ends into his mouth and held on tightly, despite his healing jaw, and rolled himself back to his room.

He glanced down at the clock he'd knocked off the wall when he'd chucked his Rubik's cube at it approximately ten minutes earlier. The glass- well, plastic, actually- was broken on the front, the hands attached to the movement gear box obviously broken. Had he really thrown the rubik's cube that hard? Whoops.

It would be at least another half hour until Gideon would be coming downstairs for his little talk, if he was true to his word. Reid grimaced at the thought of the condescending, patronizing tone of voice the man had used on him earlier and eyed his door. There was a simple push-button lock on the door, imbedded in the knob. Easy enough to pick with a bent wire coat hanger, but still, some privacy was better than none. Reid pushed the lock in and rolled over to his bed, rifled through the pillow case and pulled out a beer that had apparently been brewed on a full lunar moon. Reid edged the bottle against the lip of his desk and banged his right fist down on the cap harder than he needed to. The cap went flying and the kid took a tentative sip, smiled, took another big gulp.

"...hand crafted from roasted chocolate and crystal malts, with a timely infusion of fuggles, sovereign, styrian and cascade hops to produce an indulgently rich, full, smooth beer of exceptional quality and character..." Reid read the last of the writing on the back of the bottle to his rats and took another swig.

"This stuff is great. It tastes very... _lunar_." Reid said boisterously, in a theatrical tone of voice, over-emphasizing the word "lunar". Pollux looked up lazily from where he had been sleeping in his hammock. Castor was recharging with a sunflower seed, and to Reid's mind, looked just as sneaky and guilty eating it as his human master probably looked sucking back pilfered ale.

"Isn't this great, guys? My two best friends are named after the two brightest stars in the constellation Gemini, and I am drinking a beer brewed on a full moon and...a beer enlivened by the energies of the universe, according to its creators. My duvet is covered with celestial bodies, a string light of the planets is now hanging in space over our very heads and as far as I am concerned, I must be an extra terrestrial here... is anyone sensing a theme?" Reid drained the last of the bottle and bowled the empty container under his bed. It left a trail of amber liquid in its path like the markings of an alcoholic slug. Reid grabbed another bottle, banged the cap off and drank greedily. Gideon would catch on sooner or later and given his luck, probably sooner. And already the familiar, warm cocoon of ethanol was beginning to spread through his blood like a sedating ground fog, turning thought and emotion hazy and indistinct.

Reid eyed his rats, took a huge gulp from the second bottle, burped and began to sing.

"Well, I'm a stranger here in this place called Eaaaarth, and I was sent down here to discover the wooorrth, of your little blue plaaah-net, third from the suuuuuun...come on and show meeee what you've doooone..." Reid stopped singing, took another couple of quick belts and stared at his rats admiringly.

"Come on, don't be shy, guys! Feel free to join in the first daily Spencer Reid sing-a-long! Does anyone know whose work I'm paying tribute to, here? That's right, Pollux, you bright little star, this is _The Five Man Electrical Band_, and you receive 200 dollars and pass Go... Castor, come on...stop eating for the love of God and contribute something to the conversation...you can't remain a wallflower forever..." Reid giggled drunkenly, threw his head back and drained the last of that bottle. Rolled it under the bed so that it could rest next to its lonely brother.

By the time he had finished the third and final bottle of King Goblin and was debating whether to sample the alcoholic ginger beer or the regular Hobgoblin ale, he was feeling pretty darn relaxed. Now, what to do about that broken clock? Would have to be something witty and interesting...

* * *

It was 10 minutes after noon when Gideon put down the paperback and checked the time. He'd gone well over an hour and it was time to check on the kid. He had worked out a loose blueprint of what he intended to say to Reid in his head and several ways to stay calm if Reid acted obnoxiously. Obviously the kid had to be disciplined when he was rude and obnoxious but because of his past, any form of discipline would have to be done very cautiously, lest Reid interpret said discipline as aggressive and frightening and withdraw from interacting in general. In many ways, his earlier outburst had been progress, a sign that he felt safe enough to be a brat and yell and swear.

It wasn't the sort of progress that was fun to witness, but it was progress nonetheless and better than the kid constantly holding his breath and living on edge. It was healthier, at any rate.

Gideon entered the kitchen, filled a cup with water and drank greedily. Schooled his features into what he sometimes considered his "neutral" expression- neither happy nor aggressive nor sad- and approached the kid's closed bedroom door.

A piece of yellow loose-leaf paper had been taped up on the outside of the door, marred by Reid's clumsy, childish printing in red marker: GENIUS AT WORK. DO NOT DISTURB UNDER THREAT OF DEATH OR TORTURE. FOR YOUR CONVENIENCE, PLEASE SELECT YOUR PREFERRED METHOD OF TORTURE FROM THE FOLLOWING LIST IF YOU FEEL READY TO DISTURB ONE SPENCER REID AND HIS RAT MINIONS: crucifixion, sawing, scaphism, necklacing, the Catherine wheel, the five pains, the brazen bull, the iron maiden, enucleation, pressing, Chinese water torture, Rat torture (care of one Castor and Pollux), kneecapping, hotbox/sweat-box, death by a thousand cuts, the Spanish boot, the rack, stoning, desert sun death, disembowelment, flaying, psychopharmacological torture. LIST NOT YET INCLUSIVE.

Gideon quit reading and shook his head. "Real subtle, kiddo." He said aloud, sighing.

He could hear Reid singing loudly from inside his room, and smiled for a moment, despite the kid's posted list threatening numerous fictitious deaths of an excruciating nature. It was unexpected to hear him singing so loudly and freely, especially after the melt down earlier that morning and the more-than-a-little-bit-disturbing note on the door, but was better than Reid sulking or throwing things.

"_Evil grows in the dark! Where the sun it... NEVER SHINES! Evil grows in cracks and HOLES and lives in peoples' miiiiiinds...eviiiiiil grew, it's parrrrt of youuuu and noooow it seems to beeee- that everrrytime I look at YOU... eeeevilll growssss in...me!"_

Gideon thought about the lyrics for a second. Knew the song, vaguely. A real golden oldie. Reid's voice was off, too, high and squeaky, like he was trying to emulate Mickey Mouse or something. Gideon listened to a few more lines before rapping lightly on the kid's door.

"Reid, you ready to have that talk now?" Gideon said, voice just loud enough to be heard.

"_And, thank you, Pollux Reid, for that brilliant rendition of Where Evil Grows, by the Poppy Family. Next up, we have Castor Reid, Pollux's brother. Castor has chosen to sing California Dreamin' for us here tonight, but he's a little shy, ladies and gentlemen, so please, could you all give him a big round of applause_..." Reid stopped speaking in his theatrical stage voice and clapped his hands and whistled.

"_And now, for the first time in front of a live national audience, here is...Castor Reid!_"

"Reid? Will you answer me please? Are you ready to come out and talk now?" Gideon repeated a bit louder. Instead of a response he heard a squeaky, high-pitched put-on voice blare obnoxiously from the kid's room, effortlessly slaughtering one of Gideon's all-time favourite childhood songs.

"_Ohhh... All the leaves are brooooown, all the leaves are broooown, and the sky is greeeeeeey, and the sky is greeeyyyy...I went for a walllk, I went for a wallkkk, on a winter's daaay, on a winter's day..."_

Yup. Reid sounded like one of The Chipmunks, on acid.

Becoming increasingly frustrated, Gideon grabbed the doorknob and turned. Nothing. The profiler's mind whirled. Reid's room had at one time been the guest room, and the guest room did have a push button lock. Damn it.

"Reid! Open the door! Right now!"

Not only was Reid singing loudly and off key and deliberately annoying his care-giver, but he had locked the door. That, in itself, didn't anger Gideon but the fact that Reid was more or less immobile and had just that morning fallen flat on his face hard enough to give himself a bloody nose made the idea of him locked away inside his room a little unnerving. On top of that, something about the kid's voice was wrong...off. High and giddy and slightly garbled. Like...if Gideon hadn't known any better he would have thought Reid sounded drunk.

As soon as the idea entered his head, he had a sinking feeling. Reid wouldn't have done something that stupid, would he? Just to prove a point? And what point could he possibly be trying to make?

"Reid! Open the door! I do not want to have to go upstairs and get a coat hanger to pick the lock on this door! Open it _now_!"

"Not _nooooow_!" Reid yelled, obviously irritated at having to pause his imaginary vaudeville-cross-glee-club. "You interrupted Castor, now he has to start at the beginning! It was hard enough for him to work up the courage to get up in front of all these people in the first place, but now... very disrespectful..."

"Reid, are you drunk? Have you been drinking? Open this door. I am not playing around."

"_Hellllo, my bay-beeee, Helllooooo, myyy hunn-eeeee, helloooo my rag-timmme gallllll...send me a kisss by wiiiireee...bay-beee my heartttt's on fiiiireee_..."

"Spencer, I am not kidding. I don't know what you think you're doing today, but I have had it with this behaviour. Open the door!"

"_Ifff yoouuuu refffussssse meee, Hun-neeee, you'lll looooose meee, thennn you'lll be leffft aloonnnnee_..."

"Reid. Open the door."

Nothing. Then: "I _can't_. I'm making you a _present_."

"Then put it away, and then open the door." Gideon ground his teeth. Tried to keep his growing frustration out of his voice.

"I can't put it away. It's not done yet."

"Reid, open the door. Now. I'll give you to the count of 10, and then, if the door isn't unlocked, I am going to get a hanger to pick the lock, and if you make me do that you will not be playing with your Nintendo for the rest of the day. No amount of whining or tantrums will get you back your Nintendo for the rest of the day if that happens."

That, apparently, got through whatever alcohol-created haze of brazen stupidity the kid was currently living in. Gideon heard Reid grunt and the wheels on his chair creak across the floor. Reid turned the handle, unlocking the door. Gideon gently pushed the door open and surveyed the room.

Reid's plush dinosaur and his Ninja Turtle Action figures were lined up on the bed like some bizarre reptilian audience. His rats were sitting on top of their cage, sniffing the air. The hard wood floor was streaked with liquid. Beer, obviously. Reid's cheeks were flushed and his eyelids were droopy. In his hand was a half empty bottle of alcoholic ginger beer.

Gideon held out his hand for the beer.

"It's good!" Reid informed his foster father sternly, cradling the bottle to his chest protectively. Gideon sighed,

"Reid, you are ten years old. You are under my care. You are currently inebriated..."

"Just got my BUZZ ON!" Reid yelled, and burst out laughing.

"Give me the bottle. And tell me right now, because I am not going to play games. Is there any more beer in this room? Or alcohol of any kind?"

The kid sighed tiredly. "There is still the regular Hobgoblin on my bed. In the pillow case loot sack there. And there are two beer bottles under my bed...no...three. Yeah. Three. But they are empty now."

"Okay. Thank you." Gideon said carefully and retrieved the stolen beer from the kid's pillow case after removing the ginger beer from Reid's death grip. Gideon walked to the kitchen, poured the remaining beer down the sink, stashed the unopened beer in the cupboard above the fridge. Thought for a moment and retrieved the wine bottle and other beers and moved those, too, to the cupboard above the fridge. If they were still there by the time Reid was ambulatory then obviously something else would need to be done. For now, that was good enough.

Gideon walked slowly back to his foster son's bedroom, kneeled down and looked under the bed. There were a few more ninja turtles and markers and dust bunnies under there and...there...by the back: three empty bottles of King Goblin ale. Gideon snatched these up and walked them out to the blue recycling box on the curb.

When he came back to the kid's room, Reid was holding something behind his back and smiling impishly.

"I finished your present!" The boy announced giddily. Gideon sighed.

"Okay. Let's see what you made me."

Reid pulled the clock that had previously been on the wall above his bed from behind his back. The plastic cover was missing entirely, as were the hands. Written in black sharpie marker, very, very neatly were the words: It's later than you think.

"Do you like it?" Reid asked sweetly. Gideon stared at the damaged clock and then looked at his foster son.

"You broke your clock and then wrote some cryptic message on it and... _why_, Reid?"

"Charles Baudelaire, he kept a clock in his house with no hands and these same exact words inscribed on the face to remind him to make the most of his time. I thought it would be a nice accent piece for the living room. Another way of saying carpe diem, without actually saying _carpe diem_."

Gideon shook his head. Bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. He knew he should be angry with Reid, but something about that explanation was so eccentric that it left the profiler at a loss for words.

"Do you like Baudelaire? I do. I love his Flowers of Evil. But doesn't everyone? _Pouvons-nous étouffer le vieux, le long Remords, Qui vit, s'agite et se tortille...Et se nourrit de nous comme le ver des morts,  
Comme du chêne la chenille? Pouvons-nous étouffer l'implacable Remords?_"

Gideon sighed again, a bit louder. He had no idea what Reid had just said. Reid was apparently not so drunk that he couldn't deduce his guardian's confuse.

"Oh, that's just the first stanza of Baudelaire's poem _The Irreparable_, which in English translates as: _Can we stifle the old, the lingering Remorse, that lives, quivers and writhes, And feeds on us like the worm on the dead, Like the grub on the oak? Can we stifle implacable Remorse?_"

"That's great, Reid, but when I told you I wanted to have a talk with you, I didn't mean I wanted to listen to you drunkenly recite poetry. I meant I wanted to talk to you about your behaviour this morning, but obviously, now, we also need to discuss this stunt you just pulled. I want you to stay in your room and think about what you did. Or at the very least stay in your room until you are in a state that is conducive to talking intelligently. I am going to sit and read in the living room where I can keep an eye on you. And don't even think about trying to sneak anymore alcohol, because I threw it all away."

"But..."

"No buts! This is not debateable. I am going to go get you a few painkillers and some water, which you will drink."

"I don't have a headache!" Reid snapped a bit too loudly for comfort.

"Not now you don't, and I want to keep it that way. Your body doesn't need to deal with dehydration and a hangover in addition to everything else."

"A hangover _is_ dehydration and..."

"I'll go get you that water." Gideon said shortly, and without another word turned and left the room. When Reid did sober up, they were going to have a really serious, sit down talk about what was and what wasn't acceptable behaviour. Gideon pulled a large plastic cup covered in Ninja Turtles from the cupboard, filled it with tap water and shook two children's Tylenol into his hand. The irony of shaking out cherry flavoured, chewable painkillers from a child-proof bottle for a boy who had stolen and drank his foster father's strong ale wasn't lost on the profiler.

If Reid was this... whatever this was now, in his chair, what was he going to be like when he was fully ambulatory? Yup. They were going to have a talk, all right.

* * *

**Chapter Note (Longer than usual!): **Like always, please do not feel like you are obligated to read my ramblings. But please review this chapter! See you soon! If you're nuts, here you go (I warn you, this "note" is fairly long)...

I liked how I left the last chapter, but wanted to continue. Up until now we have seen Reid cry, panic, have nightmares and display the more commonly expected "side effects" of his experiences, but testing boundaries is normal child-parent behaviour and not behaviour Reid would have ever engaged in with his own parents because 1) his mother neglected him so there weren't really any real parental boundaries being enforced by her (even on the show) and 2) his father, in this story, was/is so abusive that Reid would have been too scared of him to try and see what he could "get away with" (which again, is normal behaviour that establishes just what the parental figure will put up with and what is expected of the child). The fact that he is pushing the envelope, so to speak, with Gideon is an indicator of just how comfortable he feels with the man, even though it is obviously an unpleasant part of the growth of their relationship. And given Reid's past, normal interactions are going to spook him. Anger, disapproval and discipline are parts of life, but not parts of life that abused kids (understandably!) know how to emotionally process very well. Please continue to review, I love your suggestions and comments. Thanks guys.

Also, before anyone says it, no, I do not condone underage drinking. I am using this scene to show how Reid is trying to use alcohol to numb his emotions. Even though most people don't want to consciously acknowledge it, prepubescent children can and do abuse alcohol and drugs, and the risk for abusing alcohol or drugs is understandably higher amongst children who have been abused, neglected or have alcoholic parents. Reid has been abused, neglected and his father is undoubtedly an alcoholic in this story, so you've got three for three there.

For those readers that are over 18, yes, Hobgoblin and the other beers described in this chapter do actually exist. They're actually pretty good- taste wise- unless you like American beer, which I consider to be flat and tasteless. Look up Wychwood breweries for more information, of if you want something from my country, may I suggest _La Fin Du Monde_ or _Maudite_ beer? I'd drink that stuff if I didn't get totally obnoxious and sing golden oldies while drunk and fall out of conifer trees. ;)

If you're a minor, there is no such thing as Wychwood breweries or Hobgoblin beer (if you're a minor you probably shouldn't be reading this story, either). Think about it. Why would adults want to drink something with a hobgoblin on the front of it? Brewed during a full moon? I mean, short of Dungeons and Dragons geeks, c'mon, who would ever buy it?...

For those who are curious, the four songs Reid "sings" in this chapter are "I'm a Stranger Here" by "Five Man Electrical Band" (song first released in 1972), "Where Evil Grows" by "The Poppy Family" (song released 1971), "California Dreamin'" by "The Mamas and the Papas" (released 1966) and "Hello, my Baby" by Joseph E. Howard and Ida Emerson (song released 1899, although my favourite "version" is sung by Michigan J. Frog on "The Bugs Bunny and Tweety Show").

It's music that would be considered fairly retro for someone Reid's age (especially "Hello, my baby") but I figured it would be the type of stuff his mother might have listened to as a young woman, and I wanted to get away from the genius cliché where said-genius is only interested in classical music, the art of Picasso and Monet, the piano, chess, etc... Reid's an awesome character on the show but unfortunately it is easy to fall into the cliché trap. For instance, giving him an eidetic memory and an IQ of 187 and a schizophrenic mother and neglectful father on the show is obviously a way of creating a really angsty character but the chances of Reid also, then being stable enough to work BAU cases by the age of 24... you see where I am going with this? Sidis, bright as he was retired from the public eye in his teens, I believe, and he didn't have to deal with 1/10th of the crap that Reid on the SHOW had to deal with during his formative years.

Yes, I like to add weird little nuggets of research into these things. Unfortunately, I can get distracted researching various topics, which prolongs the time it takes me to churn out a chapter. Enough rambling, now, I'll get back to work.


	32. Chapter 32: Bats and Lobsters

**Title:** Losing My Religion by Lexikal (Chapter Thirty Two)  
**Rating:** M for graphic violence against a child and language (in the first chapter, chapter 8 and chapter 10 so far. Chapter 28 has Reid discussing specific acts of abuse but not at length.)  
**Fandom:** Criminal Minds  
**Summary:** After two years away from his father and his father's violent rages, Spencer Reid, now ten, is returned home. Spencer has changed... but has William Reid?

**Author's Note: **Hi-hoo, hi-ho, it's off to work I goooo... please review.

* * *

"_**There is no person so severely punished as those who subject themselves to the whip of their own remorse." –Seneca**_

Reid was thirsty. He reached over and drained the last of the water from the Ninja Turtles cup on the stand next to his bed. His mouth tasted a bit funky, beery with traces of ground up acetaminophen that had artificially made to taste like some bastardized cherry. Reid took another sip of water and realized that his head was pounding, just a little, and his stomach felt a little...disturbed. He blinked and stared at the glowing planets dangling over his head. Blinked again. Oh yeah. He had stolen Gideon's beer after he'd been sent to his room and then started singing. And Gideon had caught him and was apparently waiting in the living room to talk. Reid's heart raced a bit and the sudden, sinking feeling that was shame filled him. What had he been thinking?

_It seemed like a good idea at the time, and really, that was some damned good ale_, a small voice in his head said stupidly.

"Shut up, Id." Reid whispered angrily, sighing heavily. He wasn't sure why he had been so rude to their delivery boy Kevin this morning. It had just sort of slipped out.

The young man's t-shirt had just screamed idiotic drunken revelry, and to use Buzz Aldrin, one of Reid's heroes in such a manner had been detestable. So he'd snapped at the kid, and really, that's what he was. Maybe 22 years old, maybe younger. If Gideon wanted to call him a kid at the age of 10 than culturally the 22 year old idiot in the stupid pro-alcohol shirt was also a kid. Kid was a relative term, after all, and In one or two years, at this rate, Reid would be where Kevin the boozer was as far as education was concerned, and he would be making better grades too.

But then Gideon had wanted him to apologize and had treated him like a pesky three year old and Reid had suddenly been filled with so much anger that his vision had seemed to gurgle and pop, as if some invisible electrical charge had been shot between his temples. It was bad enough some hick was making fun of Buzz Aldrin but said hick was also being paid for carrying out a task guaranteed to humiliate him.

Kevin had even had the audacity to smile at him, like he was a baby, and was probably just waiting to go tell his frat brothers about the psycho kid in the chair that needed a baby monitor so he could tell his spook foster father if he needed to piss. Reid had been sure that's what that douche bag had been thinking as soon as he had seen that smug, stupid smile on his face.

But then Gideon had told him to apologize in a tone he had ever only heard mothers use with their toddlers at the mall when he had been a freaking first grader buying school supplies and that had been the icing on the proverbial cake.

He wasn't sure what about the tone of Gideon's voice had made him feel so small and so suddenly infuriated to the degree that it had, but that had been that, and then he had been sent to his room which had just ground salt into the wound and in retaliation he'd told Gideon to fuck off. And then, to make matters worse, he had stolen some beer and gotten drunk and broken the clock on his wall.

_Great._ This was going to be a most excellent little chat. Reid shifted on his bed. His bladder was alerting him that it really needed to be drained, and wasn't being too subtle about that message either. Why was he lying on his bed? Had Gideon "helped" him do something as simple as lie down? Probably. That part was a little hazy. The last thing he clearly remembered was Gideon looking at the clock he'd written on with a stupid, confused look on his face. And when Reid had explained the cultural and literary significance of the piece, Gideon had looked smug. He'd smiled, like he was trying not to laugh, almost. Like Reid's gift was stupid. That had been another stupid mistake on the part of the egomaniacal profiler, and not one Spencer Reid would forget easily.

His bladder kept sending him signals though, more and more urgent signals with each passing second. He would have to beg. He would have to call and beg and admit total idiotic uselessness to someone who already considered him a useless baby. Either that or risk pissing his duvet and mattress, which would make things much, much worse.

"Gideon!" Reid called, pitching his voice just loud enough to be heard in the living room, trying to keep any whiny, childish quality out of it. He heard footsteps and his partially opened door opened just a little bit more.

"You ready to talk now?" Gideon said impassively from the doorway.

"Um... I need to urinate." Reid said bluntly, and then, given the fact that he had been punished and talked to like a baby already today, there it was... that familiar little flame of bitter anger.

"Okay. I'll help you." Gideon said in the same impassive tone of voice, which made Reid angrier.

"I don't need your help to piss. Just to get into my chair. The rest I can obviously do myself." Reid said bitterly. Gideon didn't respond, just helped him sit up and get into the wheelchair. Didn't say anything at all, in act, and Reid was pretty sure that the man was attempting to profile him. That much was obvious.

* * *

Gideon knew Reid was offended and angry and feeling really hurt and sensitive. That much was obvious. He'd come into Gideon's care under extreme stress and had had to face scary dentist appointments and dental surgery and adjusting to a new environment and acute stress from his experiences and the initial fatigue that followed any severe set of injuries. Not to mention that until recently he'd been heavily drugged up with narcotic painkillers just to keep his significant physical pain at a tolerable level. He'd talked about his experiences with a psychiatrist he knew could get his father into serious legal trouble and that experience had left him shaking and crying just yesterday.

Then, he'd fallen flat on his face while trying to do something as simple as piss unannounced and then, to make matters worse, the man he deeply respected had suggested that his room be installed with an infant monitor so that he wouldn't hurt himself trying to get out of bed. No wonder the kid was angry. He was angry with good reason.

His injuries, by their very nature were initially intrusive and the fall-out of those injuries would also be seen as embarrassing and humiliating to Reid. Gideon knew that much. Reid had spent his entire life fending for himself and taking care of himself in the face of extreme and extended neglect and abuse and no one, until recently, had taken much interest in his life or intervened. He was also, sadly, used to living a double life and lying and deflecting about his home life and following his most recent assault the carefully constructed lies Reid had spent years putting in place had all come tumbling down like a house of cards.

Suddenly, just as the kid was ready to enter his penultimate year of high school, he had been reduced to what he obviously felt was an infantile state. And in many ways, Reid was accurate in his assessment. Like an infant, he needed help to do even the simplest of things, like sit up on the couch or get into his chair so he could pee. He needed to be held above the toilet if he needed to defecate and because of his lack of exercise and sudden sedentary lifestyle he had to take laxatives just to keep things moving, which had obviously been embarrassing to admit to his guardian.

Until recently he had needed help washing himself due to his considerable fatigue and lack of movement. He'd been previously removed from his parents "care" due to abuse and sent right back, only to face more abuse. And, befitting someone with his experiences, he had developed significant generalized as well as specific anxieties which further limited his life and no doubt caused even more anger and resentment and frustration and bitterness.

Gideon knew Reid had plenty of reasons to feel angry and bitter and sad, but the sadness was perhaps buried deeper than anything else. The sadness and grief were extreme and Gideon sensed the child was terrified of even admitting those feelings existed because how did a ten year old emotionally deal with the knowledge that his own father had, for lack of a better word, repeatedly beaten the living "shit" out of him? How did he deal with the fact that his old man knew his schizophrenic mother had significantly neglected him, probably dating from his toddler days, and yet had still beaten him for trying to "steal" food? How did Reid live with the knowledge that he was detested so much that his own father had not only beaten him but had also sadistically put out cigarettes on his milk-white skin just because he felt like it?

How was Reid supposed to internalize all that pain and hurt and rejection and still function? _Jesus._

It made perfect sense why the boy glaring at him now felt so angry and misunderstood and hurt. Why he oscillated from crying spells and nightmares and panic attacks to outbursts of anger, as the profiler had witnessed today. It made sense, but it also meant that Reid would need to address his issues and admit that they were there because like it or not, he couldn't just mouth off and say whatever he felt like saying simply because he'd been given a shit deal by the universe.

Gideon gently lifted him into his chair and opened the door wider, so Reid could wheel himself through. Stubborn little bastard.

The profiler waited outside the kid's room while Reid saw to his business. After about ten minutes the boy came back, wheeling himself slowly, looking profoundly uncomfortable.

"Do you want to talk now? Or would you rather chill for a bit longer?" Gideon said softly, trying to keep the pity he felt for Reid out of his voice.

"I don't ever want to talk about this. You wanted me to apologize. I didn't want to apologize. Why should I apologize if I am not sorry? If you want I can parrot words and phrases just because you order me to, and I can do that and I have done that. And I will if you press it, but what good is a so-called apology if the person apologizing has been ordered to do it and doesn't really mean it?" Reid was obviously trying very hard to keep his voice stable and calm, but it was alive and dancing with barely repressed emotion.

Despite saying he didn't want to talk about the events of the day, he obviously wanted to tell his side of things.

"Look, Reid. I am not mad at you. I just want to understand why you went off like a bundle of Roman candles on the fourth of July today. I just want to understand, because I don't like seeing you upset, and I don't like seeing other people upset. That's why I want to talk this through with you. Because you are intelligent and mature enough, I think, to verbalize why you behaved like you did earlier and look objectively at your behaviour. If I simply thought you were some stupid little kid, which I do not think at all, I wouldn't be talking to you like this now. I don't want to feel angry towards you, or like I don't get you and I don't want you to feel like I am treating you in an unfair manner or for you to feel angry or hurt if there is any way we can work around that. That's why I want to talk to you."

When the agent was finished with his speech, he could see that Reid's eyes were shiny. The kid was so full of adrenaline and emotions he probably didn't know what to do, and from what Gideon knew of the boy, he hated feeling emotional and out of control. So his outburst earlier and his little drinking game spoke volumes about just how distressed and out of control he really felt. Reid wiped at his eyes angrily. Nodded.

"Fine. I'll try to talk to you but I can't promise we're going to come to any substantial understanding about anything."

"That's fine," Gideon said in a tone he hoped was soothing without sounding patronizing. "Would you like me to go put on some coffee? It's nearly 5 and you need your pills and I think we could both benefit from a little caffeine."

Reid nodded dully and wiped at his eyes again. Gideon smiled and nodded his head in understanding. He had to resist the urge to kneel down and hug the stuffing out of Reid. It hurt to see the kid looking so small and hurt and frustrated. Worse, Gideon hated the fact that Reid felt embarrassed simply for being injured and needing help. The reasons why the kid felt embarrassed made perfect sense to the profiler, but it was still yet another way the Universe seemed to be sticking it to the young genius. Life, Gideon knew all too well, was not fair in the slightest but when someone you personally loved and cared about got the short end of the stick, well... then that point really hit home.

"I think there are a few kinds of coffee," Gideon said, trying to lighten the mood a little. "We got our old tried and true standby Folger's, of course, but also some Amaretto stuff from Italy. And Kevin brought us some almond biscotti from his university campus. He knows you like coffee and thought it would be a nice surprise."

"He brought me biscotti?" Reid asked, looking suddenly even more ashamed and profoundly sad.

"Apparently it was supposed to be sold yesterday and wasn't so he got it free and thought we might like it. If you stick it in your coffee, I am sure it will be mushy enough to eat... want a piece?" Gideon pressed on, hoping Reid wouldn't make a big deal out of the biscotti.

"He brought me biscotti for no reason except to be nice and I made fun of his t-shirt." Reid said, voice hitching.

"Reid, come on. I am sure he is bright enough to realize that you're frustrated. He seems like a pretty perceptive young man. In fact, remember he laughed at your comment?"

Reid nodded sadly but he no longer looked on the verge of tears. Good.

"And I am betting that part of your reaction earlier was that you felt embarrassed by that monitor and maybe, a little bit, like he might think you were a baby? Is that part of it?" Gideon said gently.

Reid shrugged, which was a moody way of conceding without actually saying the words, as far as Gideon was concerned.

"Okay, so do you want the regular coffee or the Amaretto stuff?"

"Maybe Amaretto. That would go nicely with the almond biscotti." Reid said, almost sheepishly.

"Gotcha. Good call. Still black with two sugars?"

"Yes, please."

"You okay getting to the living room or you want to talk in your room?"

"I'll meet you in the living room. That way I can rest my coffee on the coffee table and reduce the risk of spilling." Reid said softly.

"Okay." Gideon said, and disappeared into the kitchen to make the coffee.

* * *

Gideon let Reid take a few sips of coffee and dunk his biscotti. Sat watching the boy, mentally forming his own comments.

"You think you got so upset today because you felt embarrassed? Humiliated?" Gideon said, taking a gulp of his own coffee, trying to keep his tone of voice light.

Reid sighed. "Yeah. Probably. I'm sorry."

"I know you're sorry. I also think you have every reason to be angry and feel frustrated right now." Gideon said gently.

"You do?" Reid said slowly, as if he had heard wrong.

"Reid, of course I do. If I was recovering from similar injuries as a result of an accident, say... like a car accident or something... I would feel really frustrated and annoyed by now. Nobody likes to feel helpless and extended physical pain alone wears down a person's patience and makes them irritable and grumpy. The fact that your injuries were... that they weren't accidental makes everything worse and even harder to come to terms with."

Reid sighed and shrugged. Finally nodded, just a little.

"You know, I have felt small and miserable before when I was injured. Frustrated and like I was a burden. I don't know if that's how you feel but that's how I have felt like in the past, when I was recovering from some injuries." Gideon confessed, hoping that by sharing something personal with Reid, the kid might feel like a confidant and open up a little.

"You have?" Reid asked solemnly, making eye contact with Gideon for the first time in a long time. "Why? What happened? How did you get injured?"

"Well, without getting into gory detail, I was working a BAU case and I got attacked by a man we were trying to find who was hurting people really badly." Gideon thought back, sighed, wondered if it was wise to talk about such matters with Reid. Decided that as long as he didn't talk about specific details, it was probably okay.

Reid had admitted to being interested in criminology on more than one occasion and the details in many criminology texts were far worse than anything Gideon would ever discuss with the boy. When he had first met Reid over two years earlier, Reid had quizzed the agent about what he thought the infamous serial killer and cannibal Albert Fish might be diagnosed with had he still been alive, which told Gideon that the kid had probably read his fair share of gory stuff. And of course, Reid already knew his guardian was an FBI agent and that he hunted serial killers so he wasn't likely to be easily shocked.

"How...how did he hurt you? Why did you feel like a burden?" Reid said, eyes big, coffee apparently forgotten.

"Well, he was hurting people in San Francisco. Killing them, Reid, and killing them in really bad ways because he was angry and he wanted people to feel bad and scared so he could feel powerful. He was so mad at the world that hurting other people is how he felt important."

"He was a sadist, then?" Reid asked, blinking. He had the same mesmerized look on his face that Gideon could remember his own friends having some 25 years ago at summer camp, hearing ghost stories. Except he and Reid weren't discussing ghosts.

"Yes, technically, he was a sadist. Among other things. He knew we knew who he was, his identity and were closing in on him, and he figured out it would be just a matter of time until he was caught, and he didn't want to just go down without a fight..." Gideon trailed. Took a deep breath.

"He created a trap, you see. He didn't want to go to jail. He wanted to die instead of going to jail, but he wanted to try and hurt some of us, too, for catching him. Anyway, I fell for his trap and he took me hostage, Reid."

Reid's eyes were bugging out of his eyes. He nodded his head slightly, silently urging his foster father to continue.

"Eventually he was stopped and I...I was saved by some other people, but between the time he managed to trap me and the time he was disarmed, I got hurt pretty badly. I had been alone with him for a few hours and, to make a long story short, I was hurt Reid. Really badly hurt. And like you, I had trouble walking for a long time. I wasn't in a wheelchair but I had other problems, and anyway, I felt like I was a burden and I felt humiliated and sad and really angry for a long time after that."

"You developed Acute Stress Disorder?" Reid asked, reaching, without looking, for his mug of coffee.

"Yes, I did." Gideon said, smiling at his foster son. He wasn't impressed Reid had figured out he had developed ASD. He would have been surprised if Reid hadn't put two and two together. He was, however, happy that Reid seemed more relaxed than earlier and less on edge.

"Even after I got out of the hospital and was physically cleared to go back to work, I had a lot of problems. I got panic attacks and had trouble at work. I'd get psychosomatic pains and one day when I was at work I got a crushing pain in my chest and down my left arm and I felt like I couldn't breathe. I went grey."

"Myocardial infarction?" Reid said breathlessly.

"I thought I was having a heart attack and apparently so did my colleagues because an ambulance was called out to this small little police station we were working at, putting together a new profile for the local police. But it wasn't a heart attack. It was a really bad panic attack. I had never had one before and I didn't know they could be that scary or feel that real. But after that, I felt ashamed. I started getting more and more panic attacks at work, and most of my colleagues, they got it, they understood why I was so jumpy and anxious. My colleagues are behavioural profilers after all. My boss, I guess you could call him that, suggested I take time off, and I got really mad. I felt like everyone felt sorry for me, like they thought I was damaged goods. I got depressed, all of it. So... I am not sure what I went through is anything like what you are going through or if you can relate, but I just wanted you to know that I did feel like a burden and embarrassed and tired of being injured and looking weak. I wasn't weak, but I felt weak." Just talking about that time had started the agent's heart beating a little fast.

"After that, I did take some time off and around that time I started volunteering with abused kids. I figured, maybe I could help out and make a difference. I knew if I just stayed at home and felt sorry for myself I would never get better. And about two months after I started volunteering I met you at the village, and just knowing you, meeting you, made me a better person, Reid. I thought to myself...if this little guy can be so resilient and so loving and caring and just plain smart and so _so_ brave, then maybe I could be like him too. Remember that photo the staff took of us a few weeks after you get there, the first game of chess you beat me at?" Gideon asked, smiling at the memory.

Reid nodded soberly. "I didn't really talk to anybody else there but you."

"Yeah, I remember. Everyone there thought you were naturally really quiet, but I knew better..." Gideon smiled to himself. Reid was smiling now, too.

"Well, they gave you a copy of that photo, I think, but they gave me one too. I put it in my wallet and when I went back to work I thought about you a lot and how brave and smart you were and I realized that I was helping people, doing my job. Because for a while I had felt like I wasn't making any difference at all, just burning out and becoming a bitter, angry person and I was considering just quitting. I remember you talking about how you were interested in criminology and how you wanted to study and help catch serial killers like me, remember? You said that if you managed to help catch just one sick person and save one innocent life, then it was worth doing that and the stress and pain that accompanied that job merely meant you were human. You were eight years old, Reid, and you were so mature and so wise. I knew you had my contact info and I got the occasional letter from you, but I thought about what you had said to me, and that helped. And slowly, I got better. My anxiety got a bit better. I never forgot what had happened, but I also never forgot what you had said and how you were right, and how we had caught the guy that hurt me." Gideon sighed.

"I really helped you? Even if I didn't even know it?"

"Yup. You did, kiddo. But before I met you, I remember how small and embarrassed and weak I felt. Even though I consciously knew that what I was going through was pretty normal reaction to the injuries and experiences I had gone though, I still felt weak and small and embarrassed. I just wanted you to know that, to know that if that's part of why you're mad, because you feel embarrassed and weak and angry, I get that. I really do."

Reid was silent. He sighed tiredly. Nodded.

"I don't like the idea of a baby monitor in my room. It bugs me. I didn't like the idea that Kevin knew it was for me, and that people look at me when they see me in the wheelchair and that my jaw hurts and that I need your help if I have to go to the bathroom. I didn't like being asked all those questions yesterday. But I also knew I couldn't lie. I am frustrated." Reid sighed.

"That's what I thought. I get it. And this morning, you just sort of lost it. You were frustrated and you had just had enough of being frustrated and Kevin just happened to be there. Is that it?"

"Yes." Reid said, nodding. "His shirt bugged me. And the way you had to explain the joke to me, like I was a little kid, made me feel even more like a baby. And the way he was smiling at me, I felt like he was laughing at me. And then, I don't know, my words just came out. When you told me to apologize I felt... I felt even worse. I felt like you thought I was stupid or a baby and I just felt so angry. And then when I went to my room, I wanted to just sit at my desk, and I couldn't, and I couldn't get my rats out because I couldn't reach them then so I just threw me Rubik's cube at the wall, and I felt better, so I threw it again. Then I remembered that there was wine in the kitchen and I just felt like maybe I would feel better if I had some."

"I see. But then you saw those beers?" Gideon prompted.

"Yeah. And they looked kind of funny too. And I was mad at you then, for sending me to my room, so I took them. They looked fun and interesting and I was curious to see what they tasted like, but I was also mad at you so I wanted to take them. I didn't think you would find out because I just planned on saying I didn't want to talk, but then after I started drinking I forgot that plan and got a bit..."

"You got drunk, Reid." Gideon said, smiling sadly.

"Yeah." Reid exhaled loudly. "And you found out. And the rest you know."

"I think I get it." Gideon said, nodding. "You know that you're too young to drink, and even if you weren't, drinking alcohol to self medicate, to try and numb painful emotions or frustration or anger, it's not a good idea. It never makes anything better."

"Yeah. I know. I'm sorry."

"I know you're sorry. I understand why you did it. I am sorry I made you feel like you were a baby and spoke to you in a tone of voice you found insulting. I shouldn't have told you to apologize. You're right about that that. You're smart enough to know what is acceptable and what isn't, and telling you to apologize like that was demeaning. I shouldn't have done that. At the same time, Reid, I am new to taking care of a kid. And even though you're really, really smart and like an adult in a lot of ways, you are still a kid physically and in many ways emotionally. I am not always sure how to treat you. I wouldn't know to treat a child of average intelligence coming from a healthy, non-abusive home. But you're an outlier in so many ways. Your intelligence makes you an outlier but also, your experiences. So sometimes I think I treat you like you're older than you are and put too much pressure on you, but at the same time, I don't want to treat you like a baby because I know you aren't a baby. It sometimes is hard to know how to treat you. But I am sorry if I made you feel embarrassed and angry."

Reid sighed again. "I know you're trying and I know I am a lot of work. I'm sorry. I know you are doing your best. You're doing a good job, Gideon. I like it here. I was just... I was just frustrated. I am sorry I acted like I did today."

Gideon smiled sadly. "Okay. So we're both sorry for upsetting each other. What I was thinking is that maybe we come up with a way of communicating so we can tell the other if we're feeling really angry or hurt or really upset before it gets to a point where we blow up and say things we don't mean or act in ways that make us feel worse later. What do you think about that?"

Reid nodded. "That sounds like a good idea. I still don't like the idea of the baby monitor though..."

"Kiddo, it's just so you can tell me if you need to go to the bathroom without yelling through the entire house. That's all its there for."

"Yeah, but..." Reid looked down. His cheeks blushed slightly.

"Reid? What is it? I thought we were being honest right now."

"What if I have a bad dream or something, and you hear it?" Reid finally admitted.

Gideon nodded understandingly. "Reid, I have seen you have bad dreams before, remember? And panic attacks. And I never think they are funny or that you are weak. Remember, I just told you about how I got panic attacks and nightmares before, too? I can't speak for you, but when I was having bad nightmares there were times when I wished someone would wake me up, but I lived alone. If I hear you having a nightmare, I will just wake you up. We'll sit up and play Nintendo for a bit, something like that."

"And you won't ask me about it, if I have a nightmare and you have to wake me up? You won't ask me any questions? Or if I say something, you won't ask what it refers to or anything?" Reid prodded uneasily, obviously quite distressed by the idea of Gideon hearing anything his subconscious mind might admit to in the throes of a nightmare.

"No. I promise. No questions. You know you can always talk to me if you want to, and I will try to do my best to listen and understand, but I promise I won't ask you what your bad dreams are about if you have some and I hear and I wake you up. Okay?"

"Okay." Reid said, sounding a little bit more relieved. "Gideon?"

"Yeah buddy?"

"Do you want to play Nintendo with me?" Reid smiled shyly, obviously not sure if he was pushing the envelope. Gideon chuckled. Mature as he was he was still a ten year old child, and ten year olds needed to play.

"Yeah, that sounds like a great idea. So you can slaughter me on Mario Brothers again."

"I was thinking we play Duck Hunt. Do you want to play Duck Hunt?"

"That's the one with the orange gun, right?" Gideon asked seriously. Reid nodded.

"Yeah. You're on, kid. Let's play Duck Hunt."

"Do you like what I did with the broken clock?" Reid mumbled as Gideon dragged out the game console and plugged in the gun.

"Hmm. Considering I would have just thrown a broken clock out, I think it was quite a creative move. And I learned something new about Baudelaire today."

Reid grinned. "Did you know he also had a pet bat? He found it...captured it... at a cemetery and he kept it as a pet. Did you know that?"

"No. Didn't have a clue." Gideon admitted honestly.

"Oh, and Gideon?"

"Yeah?"

"Did you know the French poet, Gerard de Nerval, he had a pet lobster? The lobster's name was Thibault. He walked him around Paris on a blue silk ribbon. Do you know what he said about lobsters?" Reid asked, smiling eagerly, as if the poet's comments were the punch line of some grand joke.

"I have no idea what de Nerval said about lobsters." Gideon confessed.

"He was talking about pet lobsters. When people implied he was crazy for having a pet lobster he said: _Why should a lobster be any more ridiculous than a dog? Or a cat, or a gazelle, or a lion or any other animal that one chooses to take for a walk? I have a liking for lobsters. They are peaceful, serious creatures. They know the secrets of the sea and they do not bark and they don't gnaw upon one's monadic privacy like dogs do. And Goethe had an aversion to dogs, and he wasn't mad_. Just so you know, de Nerval famously translated Goethe's Faust."

Gideon smiled. Reid smiled back.

"Did you know that de Nerval stole Thibault from a lobster net? He was caught and had to pay for Thibault and publically apologize."

"He sounds like quite a character." Gideon said honestly, trying to picture the famous poet walking around the streets of Paris in the mid 1800s with a lobster. It was hard to imagine. The little he knew of de Nerval was what he had learned in first year college.

"He was one of my childhood heroes. Him and Joseph Carey Merrick. And Van Gogh of course. And Baudelaire. I had lots of childhood heroes."

"Hmmm. And when did your childhood end?" Gideon ribbed gently. Truth be told, he was enjoying Reid's comments much more than playing with the Nintendo.

"You know what I mean, Gideon. It's sad though. Always my heroes, they always die young. Do you know what de Nerval's last words were before he hanged himself?"

Suddenly, Gideon remembered who he was talking to. As cute as de Nerval's pet lobster story was, it would make sense that Reid would be drawn towards tragic historical characters.

"No, buddy. I don't know."

"By words, I mean, a suicide note. It was for his aunt. He said: _Do not wait up for me this evening, for the night will be black and white. _Do you have any idea what he meant by that?" Reid asked.

"No. I don't Reid."

"Maybe it meant that the night would be good for him. White. Because he would be going back to the spirit world that he loved so much. But black for his aunt, because she loved him and he would be dead."

"Maybe that's what it means." Gideon said uneasily. "Reid? Why are you telling me this?"

"What do you mean?" Reid asked.

"Why are you telling me about de Nerval's suicide?"

"After I told you about Baudelaire's pet bat I remembered de Nerval's lobster and I wanted to laugh. I thought, gee, the French really are oddly full of life despite all their self-proclaimed ennui. But then, I remembered how he died and I thought how sad it was that someone so sensitive to the beauty of a crustacean killed himself. If he saw so much beauty in the world, then it seems even more tragic that he died by his own hand. And I never understood what his note meant."

"Maybe he didn't even really know what his note meant." Gideon offered softly. Reid shook his head.

"No. He knew what it meant. But I don't."

"Maybe that's a good thing, kiddo." Gideon said kindly. Reid worried his lip. Nodded. Sighed tiredly.

"Scary, isn't it?" Reid said finally.

"What?" Gideon asked. Apparently Reid had forgotten about playing Duck Hunt.

"Death. The inevitability of it. How you don't know how it will come, and the fear and panic that might accompany it. Then, going into a box, full of preservative, in the ground and the cold or, conversely, being burned to nothing. Either way, it's chilling. All your cells, everything that makes you _you_, just ceasing, and all your trials and hard work just over and you, just over. Do you wonder if de Nerval changed his mind when he was dying and dangling. I wonder if Thibault was still around then, and if he was, what happened to him then. Or if he had other pets. If he changed his mind and wanted to take it back but couldn't. Death scares me."

Gideon swallowed. Blinked. He could remember when he had first started to consider death, really think about it and everything that one, simple word encapsulated. He'd been a few years older than Reid when the cold, hard reality of death had emotionally hit home. His grandfather had died, suddenly of a massive stroke and until that moment, death had always been something removed, something he had never really considered as a possibility. He'd felt chilled and off balance for months. Reid had almost been killed. No wonder he was off balance.

"Reid, I think death scares a lot of people. We are all scared of the unknown, I think."

"Men fear death as children fear to go in the dark; and as that natural fear in children is increased by tales, so is the other." Reid quoted solemnly. "That's Francis Bacon."

"I actually knew that was Bacon." Gideon admitted. "But I think our friend Bacon had a point. Talking about death in a scary way makes it scarier. Just like talking about what might be in the dark."

"I know. And I am scared of them both."

"Both?" Gideon asked.

"Death. And the dark."

"Oh." Gideon nodded. Felt himself at a loss for words. "You want to play Nintendo? Maybe we are analyzing ourselves a little too much now, do you think?"

"Yeah. I guess." Reid admitted. "But can we play Battle Chess again?"

The profiler nodded. Got up to get the game. Made a mental note not to engage in conversations about suicidal French poets or the dark for a while.

* * *

**End of this Chapter**. Reid still has to get his blood test, get his cast off, then there will be his father being a jerk and the stress of that. So maybe 45 chapters in this, not 40? Anyway, we are getting there. Slowly but surely. Please review. I have fun interjecting weird little factoids into these things, like the story about de Nerval's lobster Thibault. I like eccentric people. They make me smile. Please review, reviews also make me smile. I also write faster when I review. I will write a page (relatively quickly) for each review I get (have I resorted to extortion now? Jeez, ignore me...but review the story?).


	33. Chapter 33: Goodbye, damn spica!

**Title:** Losing My Religion by Lexikal (Chapter Thirty Three)  
**Rating:** M for graphic violence against a child and language (in the first chapter, chapter 8 and chapter 10 so far. Chapter 28 has Reid discussing specific acts of abuse but not at length.)  
**Fandom:** Criminal Minds  
**Summary:** Spencer Reid, 10, is removed from his father's "care" after being violently attacked and is fostered by his old mentor, Jason Gideon. This is a sequel to "That's me in the corner". Features child abuse, do not read if underage.

**Author's Note: **I changed summary because I realized how old it was and how it does not really describe what the majority of this fic is about. Also, in this chapter 3 weeks have passed since the last chapter and Reid is getting his spica cast off. Don't worry, I will fill you guys in. Please review.

* * *

"_**Between stimulus and response there is a space. In that space is our power to choose our response. In our response lies our growth and our freedom." – Viktor E. Frankl**_

3 weeks later...

After Reid's day of drinking, or "D-day" as Reid jokingly referred to it much to Rossi's delight and Gideon's chagrin, things had gone better. Reid had had a few episodes of angry outbursts, and a few nightmares a week that had caused Gideon to get up out of bed and sit with him or play Nintendo until the kid drifted off again. Reid had spent some of the money he had earned "consuming calories" to buy a calendar and had been marking off the days until his cast would be removed and had then used his "caloric intake funds" to buy another clock for the wall to replace the one he had broken by throwing his Rubik's cube at it. He was also slowly paying his guardian back for the ten Nintendo games he'd gotten in addition to the original bundle. In Reid's own words "that was a little much. The set was a nice gesture. I am sorry for being greedy." The kid had gone so far as to draw the delivery boy a detailed picture of the Las Vegas strip at night, every inch of sky meticulously coloured in black with marker, in stark contrast to the neon signs etched in pencil crayon. The words "I'm sorry for being rude to you (on the morning of) August 30th 1990 regarding your Buzz Aldrin/Beer t-shirt. Spencer Reid" had been carefully printed on the back.

They were now on their way to the hospital. Reid had had an X-ray and a blood test and urine test performed a week earlier. Gideon had told him the blood and urine tests were to check his general health and make sure he wasn't anemic from his surgery and that everything looked okay. No use in getting the kid upset unless it was absolutely necessary. Reid had winced when the needle had gone in but had resisted the obvious urge to verbally complain (at least, in front of the nurse) and Gideon had helped him with the urine sample as the bathroom had been much smaller than the one at "home".

All in all the kid had been in good spirits. As far as he had been concerned the blood and urine tests were minor inconveniences despite the phlebotomist being a closet sadist. The x-ray had been taken to see just how well his femur was healing and everything was looking as good as could be expected. Reid had wanted to have his cast removed that day but had been told to stick it out for another week. He had even been given a red lollipop, and to the kid's credit, hadn't chucked it back at the doctor who had reviewed his films. Progress was progress.

Their appointment today was to have the "damn spica" as Reid called it, removed. They were supposed to be at the hospital at 12:30 give or take the usual time spent waiting in waiting rooms and allowing for late doctors. The drive was 30 minutes, give or take ten minutes depending on the lights and the traffic. It was 11:15 and Reid was sitting in the car, honking the horn repeatedly. Gideon had helped him out to the car at around 11, even though he had told Reid it would be a while before they were leaving.

"If we go earlier and someone doesn't show up, we might be able to get in sooner!" Reid had shot back excitedly. Gideon had nodded and decided not to argue with prepubescent enthusiasm and had handed the kid his doodle pad and markers and gone back in the house to load the dishwasher, read the newspaper, finish his coffee... sane person things. He'd left the keys in the ignition and Reid had turned the radio to the oldies station. And then, like magic, at precisely a quarter after 11 the kid had started smashing his hyperactive fist against the horn.

"Reid, we aren't leaving yet! Stop honking the horn!" Gideon called from the front porch. He knew the boy was excited. Who wouldn't be excited to get a cast off after more than 7 weeks in it, and especially when it extended from just below his chest, down one entire leg and down to just above the knee on the other leg. Calling it a cast, while accurate, didn't do that monstrous contraption justice.

"If we get there early, maybe they can hook me up with my crutches so as soon as we get the cast off, we can leave!" Reid called back, obviously confident in his ability to use crutches and ignoring the reality of atrophied muscles. Reid's chestnut hair, in the almost 8 weeks since his surgery, was now almost an inch long and the surgical scars were no longer visible. It would take another year or so until his hair was as long as Reid liked to have it according to the boy's own estimations, but at least he no longer felt ashamed and didn't feel the need to wear a hat constantly. What was more: his food intake was a little more varied. He still couldn't eat outright chewy things like peanut brittle, but his diet was mostly back to normal, if one could call sushi and salad rolls a "normal" diet for a ten-year-old.

"Fine, give me five minutes to get my stuff and we'll leave!" Gideon called back when it became clear that Reid wasn't ready to give up honking the car's horn. "But only if you stop bugging the entire neighbourhood with that racket."

Instantly, the honking stopped. Gideon sighed, smiled to himself, and jogged back into the house. Checked to make sure Reid's rats were secure in their cage and had enough food and clean water. He grabbed his briefcase and flipped through it. Inside was his day planner and book of contact info, change for Reid in case the kid wanted to get something from the vending machine, the regular camera, film, the Polaroid camera and extra Polaroid film. A collection of Polaroid and "regular" photos had been spread out over the coffee table. Two weeks ago Spencer Reid and Jason Gideon had started to put together a scrap book of Reid's new life in Virginia. Reid was currently working on a 6 page spread of Castor and Pollux and the joy that was rat ownership and the coffee table and surrounding area was littered was stickers and scrap book paper from the dollar store.

The living room had also changed quite a bit since Reid's angry outburst and the subsequent "talk". He'd spent more time drawing, and not all of his drawings were ones he wanted to "share" just yet, but he had produced some excellent pieces done with everything from oil pastel to charcoal which he had given to Gideon. The art he found comfortable sharing covered a variety of topics and themes: the rats, the constellations, Las Vegas landscapes, theoretical space craft and robots of the future and perhaps, most endearingly, charcoal renditions of Gideon himself sitting and reading in a variety of poses. Gideon had picked up some picture frames and currently eleven of Reid's best efforts were hanging on the walls of the living room. On the mantle were framed pictures of Reid playing video games, holding a giant Lego skyscraper (apparently it was the Sears tower but Gideon didn't remember the Sears tower being multicoloured), kissing Pollux, cuddling Castor to his cheek, and then there were the "family" portraits Rossi had snapped of them out in the front yard. The largest featured Reid sitting on the grass in front of his foster father, head craned back to see the expression on his guardian's face as he told some joke that, at the time, had caused both of them to lose it laughing despite being in very bad taste. Rossi had promised to come back and take more pictures after Reid was out of his chair, much to Reid's delight.

Gideon, staring around the living room at his foster son's artwork and photographs wondered if there were any visible signs that Reid had ever lived at that sad little house in Vegas that Reid had been trapped in for so many years. If what his mother had written in that early letter was true, even if there had been some visible signs that he had once "lived" there, those indicators were long gone now.

Shaking off the depressing thoughts, Gideon grabbed his keys off the coffee table and plastered a smile on his face. Today was a big day for Reid. Reid had earned the right to be happy.

* * *

"Why is that guy driving so slowly? You should honk at him! Gideon? You should honk at him!"

It was only 11:32 and they were making excellent time. They would be there in less than 12 minutes at this rate.

"Reid, he is driving the limit. Actually, 5 miles over. I am not going to honk at him. Draw or compose some music in your head or something. You're giving me a headache."

"I told you, if we get there sooner and somebody else is scheduled before us but we are there first, they will see us first. People run late all the time. Plus, like I said earlier, too, even if we don't get the cast off early we can pick up the crutches. Did you write down the address? Do we have to pick them up at the hospital or do we have to get them at a medical supply store? At the hospital, right?" Reid was rambling.

"They said they had some kid-sized ones there. Calm down."

"You didn't phone and double check? Gideon! Oh yeah... what are we going to do with this chair. Can we sell it?"

"Reid, I know you are really, really excited but can you please work on your puzzle book or something. Anything? Please?"

Reid had been chattering almost non-stop since noon the day before. And his volume and rate of speech had increased exponentially with each passing hour.

"This puzzle book is lame. Why did Rossi get me this? Just because it was published by Mensa? Big deal. And why would a genius only want to take one quiz a day? And...this is lame."

"I'll tell Rossi how much you're enjoying it." Gideon said dryly, tapping his hands lightly on the steering wheel at the red light.

"And this other book for kids, the one you got me... this one is too easy. Why did you get me a book for kids? Were you trying to be funny?"

"Perhaps I was sleep deprived because somebody was keeping me up all night talking about the scientific inaccuracies on _MacGyver_." Gideon paused. Rubbed his eyes.

"But MacGyver is inaccurate- or, okay, maybe not always inaccurate, but come on! Like in the pilot? In the gambit of the pilot? I don't think a paper clip inserted into that countdown mechanism would stop it. He cut the wires and that didn't work, right? Where did he stick the paper clip? Why would they have a device that intricate and sophisticated, apparently, but make it able to be stopped by a paper clip? And when he ties that hose with the end cut off and knotted under the steel girder blocking his path, and turns on the water to move the girder? Maybe it would work. I just wasn't buying it. I didn't say these things weren't possible, just not plausible. Especially the way they work for him perfectly every single time, with no hiccups. And later on, in the episode called The Enemy Within? I really, really doubt that makeshift defibrillator would work. I mean, who in their right mind would make a defibrillator out of 2 candlesticks and a floor mat and an electrical power cord? Even if you were desperate, I really think... I think that was just thought up on the fly to make that episode more dramatic, that's what I think, Gideon. For one, you can't control the voltage that way, and secondly, and TV shows do this all the time, people in asystole aren't shocked because the point of shocking someone is to put them into asystole so their heart can establish a normal sinus heart rhythm on its own. I read that anyway, and it does make sense. People who have already flat-lined apparently require immediate intravenous medication and anyway, MacGyver didn't have an ECG machine and..."

"Reid. Okay. Please be quiet. I can't hear myself think."

"I don't think it's physiologically possible to hear yourself think. I mean, I don't think it's possible to hear synapses in the brain. If we could, we wouldn't be able to function normally. We would be constantly-"

"Reid! Seriously! You said those puzzle books are boring, right?"

"They are and what is more..."

"Have you done all the puzzles in them? In both of them?"

"No...but..."

"I'll give you five bucks if you finish all the puzzles in both those books by the time we get there."

Reid shut up instantly. Or almost shut up. Gideon heard the books being hastily thrown open and the sound of marker tips squeaking on the pages. Reid's smug, amused little laughs as he filled in answers to problems that were, to his mind, ridiculously easy to solve. The sound of the pages being turned at an eerily rapid rate. Gideon knew it was wrong to bribe the kid with money for doing things like eating and being quiet. At the same time, his options were limited. Reid was a genius and Gideon highly doubted normal parenting techniques would work. Reid was also a traumatized genius, which made everything a great deal more difficult. Reid had already drafted up a list of chores he could do for additional "funds" once he was fully ambulatory and Gideon had happily signed off on the transaction.

* * *

Reid was almost bouncing out of his chair. He was talking giddily to some other kid in a cast, some boy a few years younger whose arm was in a cast. The boy obviously did not know what to make out of the hyperactive genius in the wheelchair and had a look of utter confusion on his face.

"So, you see, that's why it's important to get enough co-enzyme Q-10 in your diet as well as acetyl-L-carnitine. Do you understand_ now_?" Reid asked speedily, pupils dilated with excitement.

The kid stared at Gideon, back at Reid. Shook his head. Gideon decided to end the torture.

"Reid, he obviously is not nearly as interested as you are in biochemistry. Here is a Scientific American. Why don't you read this?"

Reid opened it and began to scan the pages quickly.

Finally, an epoch later (well, five minutes according to Gideon's watch) a nurse called: "Spencer Reid?" Gideon stood and nodded. "That's us!" and began to push a very giddy Reid towards her.

"Um...are you...Jason Gideon? Reid's legal guardian?" The nurse asked. Gideon nodded.

"I believe the doctor wanted to talk to you about...Spencer's blood test results? Alone?" She eyed Reid, smiled at him, and looked back at Gideon. Gideon nodded. Felt something cold and hard unravel in his stomach. Some primitive, cruel beast awakening.

"I fully understand the dangers of anemia. Anything you can say to him, you can say to me, too..." Reid announced manically, a huge smile plastered on his face. Gideon rolled his eyes. Hoped Reid wouldn't fly off the handle if he was told to wait a bit longer.

"Um..." the nurse made eye contact with the boy, glanced back at Gideon. Gideon shook his head slightly, expression sombre. "Why don't I take you back now, Spencer? Get you set up so the doctor can remove that cast while your...Dad can discuss your blood test results and..." She never got a chance to finish.

"Yes! Thank you! What was I thinking, yes, Gideon, you go speak to that other doctor about my iron levels. Let's get this baby off!" Reid's voice was a delighted squeal. Gideon made eye contact with the woman, thanked her with his eyes.

He heard Reid rambling excitedly as she pushed him back to some room. Heard her assure the boy that yes, she would personally escort his guardian to the room where he was before the cast actually came off. Yes, it was a good idea to take photographs. Yes, a very big day, she could understand that. Gideon watched his foster son disappear out of sight.

_Keep it together, Jason. You don't know what this is about._

But he already did. That woman's expression had spoken volumes.

Damn it. Damn it. Damn it.

* * *

"Chlamydia." Gideon said, testing the word out. His mouth had gone dry. The doctor nodded seriously. The man had explained that the infection could exist for months or even years without noticeable symptoms. He'd briefly gone over the treatment, which was thankfully a course of antibiotics and explained that he would have to formally report his findings to the authorities. Gideon nodded and gave the man the number of the psychiatrist Reid had spoken to, as well as Reid's case manager.

"_Jesus_." Gideon breathed. The doctor smiled at him sympathetically.

"Is this your first time fostering?"

"What? Oh... yes."

"This sort of news is never easy to give. The relatively good news is that his tests came back negative for other STDs. When it comes to HIV, however, Spencer will need to be tested again in about 6 months and again in about a year, as it can occasionally take that long for the body to build up enough antibodies to the virus. But so far he's in the clear."

Gideon was feeling dizzy. Chlamydia was bad enough. No way the kid could have HIV... if he did...Christ, what if Reid..._ Jesus_.

"Can I get you a glass of water, Mr. Gideon?" The doctor asked. Gideon nodded mutely. Mumbled a hollow thank you when he was presented with a wax Dixie cup full of tepid tap water.

"Is Spencer currently in school?" The doctor asked softly. Gideon shook his head.

"Okay. When he does go back to school, the school will have to be made aware of his possible condition... as it relates to possible HIV infection, I mean. In the event that Spencer is positive and, well, if he is injured or has a nose bleed and the school is uninformed you, as his legal guardian, could face legal trouble if it turns out that anyone was put at risk because the school was uninformed and..."

Gideon nodded again. Felt faint and a little bit too hot. The walls of this tiny little office were covered in photographs of smiling children, newborn babies, thank you cards from parents, the art work of toddlers. But all Gideon could think of was Reid sitting and waiting for his damned cast to be removed and the fact that at this very moment he was infected with a sexually transmitted disease which could lead to sterility and a host of other conditions _if left untreated_ and...Christ. Gideon could taste bile.

"I...Spencer's psychiatrist feels it better that Spencer not be told if he is positive with any STDs. He didn't even know he was being tested for...for...he thought the blood tests were to check his iron levels and his white blood cell count and... He has dealt with a lot lately and..." Gideon swallowed and took another sip of the tap water. The water tasted metallic. The doctor nodded.

"I understand. I will leave that up to you and his psychiatrist. I understand what a sensitive topic this is."

Gideon nodded but didn't think the doctor could possibly understand just how upset Reid would be if he found out Gideon and god knows how many other people knew he was infected with an STD. Gideon exhaled slowly.

"The symptoms, if he does have any. They would be painful?"

"Moderately painful. But again, this infection is asymptomatic for a large number of people."

"And the treatment...the antibiotics? Those are effective?"

"Almost 100% of the time." The man scribbled on a pad of paper and handed Gideon the prescription.

"That can be filled at any pharmacy. Spencer will need to come back and be re-tested, just to make sure the treatment was effective. And, like I mentioned earlier, he will need to have his blood drawn again in about half a year and again at a year just to be safe regarding..."

"Right. I remember." Gideon said, effectively cutting the man off.

"In the meantime, you being the boy's primary caregiver...if he does bleed or injure himself, you may want to take extra precautions. Just to be safe. For instance, gloves and..."

"Uh huh."

"That's pretty much... it. Mr. Gideon?"

Gideon looked at the man. Raised his eyebrows.

"You might want to get a coffee down the hall and take a few minutes for yourself. Kids tend to be much more perceptive than we give them credit for."

"I...Spencer is probably climbing the walls waiting for that cast to come off." Gideon said, smiling just a little at the mental image of his foster son complaining and chattering up a storm in his excitement. Was probably driving whoever had been stuck watching him absolutely ape-shit crazy.

"Okay. Well... if you check in at the front desk they will know what room he's in." The man stood, extended a hand to Gideon. Gideon took it, but he felt hollowed out and very old and very, very tired.

* * *

"Where were you?" Reid cried when Gideon entered the room, carrying two coffees from the vending machine.

"I have been waiting in here 20 minutes at least! Do you know how long that is when you really want to get a cast off? When we get home I am going to sing... what's your least favourite type of music?"

The nurse that had escorted Reid back into the exam room smiled tiredly up at Gideon. Gideon smiled back at her in acknowledgment. She looked harried and exhausted. After some twenty odd minutes.

"Spencer has made you a..." the nurse interjected, cutting Reid off. Reid had managed to talk his way into being given a batch of throat swabs and blue rubber bands used to tourniquet arms about to be stuck with needles.

"It's just a 3 dimensional, 5 pointed star." Reid announced, showing off his handiwork. "I thought maybe I could make a Hoberman sphere, but it didn't work. That was a real waste of throat swabs."

"You don't say..." Gideon said, smiling gently.

"Look what I got!" Reid said happily, holding up a plastic box with a lid. Reid removed the lid and held up medical paraphernalia wrapped in clear plastic. "It's a suture kit! Neat, huh? She gave it to me for free! I asked if I would get a prize, like at the dentist's, and she said they only had suckers, and I know how much you don't like me ingesting red dye number 6 as it tends to make me a little hyper, but the other flavours are just plain bad. The yellow lemon suckers? Nobody likes lemon flavour. Red is the only flavour even remotely palatable...anyway, long story short, she gave me this suture kit. I was debating between this and the disposable oxygen mask with the tubing, because that looked cooler, but in theory I could actually use this kit and an oxygen mask without an oxygen tank is pretty darn useless..."

"At first he asked me if he could have a speculum." The nurse said tiredly, but the smile on her face spoke volumes and Gideon knew her interaction with Reid would be relived among the fellow nurses.

"I wanted to know what was in that drawer, there." Reid said in his defence, pointing to a drawer labelled OBGYN. "How was I supposed to know what those things were? Not like I'm an expert on that subject. I thought they were rib-spreaders..." The kid's cheeks were turning red.

"So, you have been well behaved then." Gideon said dryly. As angry and sad as the profiler was to hear about Reid's blood test results, it was hard to stay in a bad mood while in the actual presence of Spencer Reid, official happy chatter box and living proof that elves did, indeed, exist.

"Hey, two coffees? You got me a coffee?" Reid queried, finally spotting the beloved beverage.

"Yeah. I figured I owed you one for making you wait."

"So how badly anemic am I? Do I need the shots, or just those pills?"

"Actually, you have a mild infection." Gideon said, not wanting to lie. Not wanting to get into it. He knew if Reid ever found out the truth, he would be even more upset if he felt he had been outright lied to.

"From... my injuries? Something got infected? Like during surgery?"

"Yes." Gideon said simply, leaving well enough alone.

"Funny. I feel fine. Just goes to show you... hey, can I have that coffee now?"

Gideon handed the kid his coffee. Reid all but inhaled it.

"I will go check on what's keeping the doctor..." the nurse said, excusing herself from the room, obviously distressed by the idea of the boisterous kid in her presence ingesting coffee. Reid handed Gideon his star, which was actually quite interestingly constructed and collapsed in on itself if pressed.

"See? It turns into a black hole!"

"That's very clever, buddy. I am amazed it stays together."

"It would be better if it was made with pencils or something more stable. Those throat swabs don't look too sturdy, but you work with what you have, play the cards you're dealt in life..."

Gideon bit the inside of his cheek. Nodded. You did, indeed.

* * *

Reid was finally asleep. He had posed for Polaroid pictures as his cast had been removed and practiced moving around the hall with his crutches, but had quickly tired from the excitement of the day. Gideon had pushed the kid back to the car in his wheelchair. It was hospital policy, anyway, and Reid was far too tired to attempt limping there on his crutches. Now, the profiler leaned over and shook his young charge gently. Reid roused slowly, blinked tiredly and rubbed his eyes.

"Buddy, I have parked the car. I am just going to run in and pick up your antibiotics. I'll be back in 10, 15 minutes and then we can go home. You okay here on your own for a bit?"

Reid nodded sleepily.

Gideon smiled. Leaned over and kissed the top of the boy's head.

"Gideon?" Reid mumbled sleepily.

"Yeah?"

"When we get home can we blow the spica cast up with firecrackers in the front yard?"

"Yeah... that's not going to happen. Sorry."

"Can we put it in the driveway, then, and you can run it over with the car?"

"I thought you wanted to keep it. As a souvenir?"

"I wanted to keep it so I could destroy it." Reid said sleepily, turning and resting his head against the passenger seat window.

"Okay. I'll be back in a few minutes." Gideon said, exiting the vehicle before Reid could wake back up and launch into a detailed conversation about the many possible deaths of the spica cast. He knew the conversation was far from over and Reid would want to talk about possible ways to destroy the cast when he woke up, but for now the kid had drifted back off to sleep.

* * *

**That's it for this chapter.** The story still has a ways to go, but I can now see the light at the end of this tunnel. Remember, I write faster when I get reviews. Think of each review like a molecule of ATP that gives me the energy to tap my fingers on the keys and produce this stuff slightly faster. And just like Adenisone triphosphate each review is "recycled" about 1000 to 1500 times a day, meaning, in short, that I reread these things. Yes. Writing fan fiction has made me even weirder than I was to begin with. But please review. And no, Reid will not have contracted HIV. But it is true that it can take up to a year for HIV antibodies to show up in the blood and given his history it is a legitimate concern.


	34. Chapter 34: Hotchner

**Title:** Losing My Religion by Lexikal (Chapter Thirty Four)  
**Rating:** M for graphic violence against a child and language (in the first chapter, chapter 8 and chapter 10 so far. Chapter 28 has Reid discussing specific acts of abuse but not at length.)  
**Fandom:** Criminal Minds  
**Summary:** Spencer Reid, 10, is removed from his father's "care" after being violently attacked and is fostered by his old mentor, Jason Gideon. This is a sequel to "That's me in the corner". Features child abuse, do not read if underage.

**Author's Note: **This chapter's author's note is quite long. I put it at the end of this chapter so as not to disrupt the story flow. Enjoy and please review. If you are curious about anything specific in this chapter, hopefully the note at the end will clear some things up. I am not sure anyone should actually read that "note", but it is there for those that want to.

* * *

"_**Every moment and every event of every man's life on Earth plants something in his soul." –Thomas Merton**_

For the first three days after having his cast removed, Reid had used his crutches to move around almost exclusively, confining the wheelchair to the back of his closet. Around the fourth day he began placing the crutches down and hobbling around for five and then ten minutes several times a day, definitely pushing himself beyond what Gideon had had expected. The boy would read a chapter of a book or play Nintendo until he beat some new boss or reached some new level, pause what he was doing, and practice walking around, using tables and the walls for support when needed. Gideon had had to tell him several times to slow down, lest he injure himself by being too aggressive with his physiotherapy and set his healing back, but Reid had continued to hobble, teeth gritted together, face sweaty as he pushed his weakened legs to rebuild muscle that had atrophied in the weeks the cast had kept him immobilized.

By the end of the first week, he was hobbling on his own without the crutches more often than not and no longer needed the dreaded baby monitor and Gideon had promptly packed it up and driven it to the local Salvation Army thrift store.

Eight days after Reid's cast was removed, Gideon had received a phone call from a young prosecutor Richard Martin had managed to retain for the case pro bono named Aaron Hotchner. Hotchner had reviewed the boy's statements, the tapes, the medical files and pretty much every other pertinent piece of information ever compiled on Spencer Reid, his parents or his school history. He had asked to meet with Gideon to introduce himself and discuss the case and possible directions it might go in, whether it was tried in family or criminal court and the pros and cons of each scenario as well as the pros and cons of setting Reid up with a court appointed Guardian Ad Litem.

Gideon had agreed to meet with him the day after the phone call, on the 29th of September and had phoned Rossi to talk things over.

Aaron Hotchner had been amenable to meeting at Gideon's house but due to the nature of their meeting, Gideon preferred Reid not be in the vicinity. Reid was a mastermind at eavesdropping, it turned out, and now that he was no longer trapped by his wheelchair Gideon had decided that it would be better to meet where the young genius couldn't possibly overhear anything that might upset him at this stage in his recovery. Rossi had suggested hiring Kevin Roderick to babysit as Reid knew him somewhat and the young man was studying psych, and miraculously Kevin had been free and Reid had accepted the plan without much fuss, stating: "I don't care who pretends to watch me, as long as I can drink my coffee and play my Nintendo and hang out in the back yard."

Gideon had agreed, and that had been that. Gideon had drafted a huge contract and had Reid sign and date it. It outlined just what was expected of the boy and what he was and was not allowed to do while his guardian was absent. It had taken the profiler a good two hours to type the thing up on his computer and print it out. He'd made 3 copies, one for himself, one for Reid's "files" (whatever that meant, Gideon wasn't really sure, but apparently it was important) and one copy which had promptly been taped up on the fridge next to a page of rambling prepubescent poetry detailing the follies of youth and drawings of what were apparently extra-terrestrials drinking alcohol with the ancient Mayans. Reid had sketched a figure he referred to as "Pakal the great" sharing some unknown substance from a hookah with a grey alien who was propped up against a Mayan pyramid and pointing longingly at the crayoned blue sky.

"Remember, he can't get a shower, only a bath, because the tub is slippery and he still has trouble standing in one spot for long. Although I don't expect you'll have to worry about either scenario. No more than 2 cups of coffee and Reid... if you're playing outside, no playing with matches, fire, explosives or power tools and if you do decide to go for a walk you stay on this street. You know the limits. And yes, you can cross at the end to go to the convenience store, but no farther. Everybody clear on those basics?" Gideon confirmed, feeling mildly ridiculous.

Kevin was sitting in Reid's usual spot on the couch, flipping through a psychology text book and looking rather bored with whatever he was reading. He gave a thumbs-up to indicate he'd heard and agreed with Gideon and returned to his homework with a yawn. Reid sighed, as if exasperated.

"Go already. We get it. You outlined all of that quite clearly in the contract. The house will still be here when you return." Reid said patiently, as if Gideon were being unreasonable.

"When I say 2 cups of coffee, I mean 500 millilitres or half a litre. Do you hear me?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Go already! I'm fine! I'm apparently under house arrest, but other than that, I'm fine."

"We'll be fine." Kevin said, glancing up from the book. "Reid and I are going to play Nintendo, aren't we, Reid?"

"Yeah, we might do that..." Reid trailed. Obviously the boy already had his day planned out and it didn't involve playing Nintendo with the college-aged delivery kid.

"Yeah. Okay. Come here. Give me a hug." Gideon finally sighed, feeling like a mother hen. Reid ambled forward and ducked his head into Gideon's shoulder before quickly scampering off to his room. He still limped, of course, but he already moved so quickly that the limp was hard to see unless you were looking for it. The door banged shut and the sound of Reid's radio filtered out into the hall.

"I've never met a nine year old who liked Dixie Land Jazz before." Kevin said, smiling at Gideon.

"He turns ten in ten days and I have been referring to him as ten for the last two months. If you call him nine you'll get a lecture." Gideon warned and grabbed his keys.

* * *

Aaron Hotchner came across as a serious, pensive young man who radiated intelligence and was brusque in an efficient, no-nonsense manner that Gideon found put him oddly at ease. For such a young man, the attorney was also extremely confident, punctual, thoughtful and put together. He had wrapped up the initial meeting with a promise to get in contact with William Reid and the Las Vegas child protection services and see what charges, if any, the county was planning to lay against William Reid and what conditions, if any, would need to be fulfilled before Reid would be a candidate for "returning home".

Gideon could tell the young man was angered by Reid's extensive history of abuse, but he kept his emotions in check quite well, asking only questions that were directly connected to Reid's immediate situation or pertinent to the case in a purely legal sense.

When Gideon returned home two and half hours later after picking up some books from the library and some groceries and taking a walk in the park to clear his head, Reid was in the bathroom, singing.

"He played in the backyard all afternoon and then came in and got in the bath. He's using his Mr. Bubble brand bubble bath, apparently, and then plans to retire to his room for an evening of philosophical debate with the rats. I believe tonight the symposium is planning to discuss the merits of Wittgenstein's work." Kevin announced, wiping his eyes and closing his psychology text.

"So he was relatively good, then?" Gideon pressed.

"Fine. Was pretty muddy when he came in and he must have gone to the store because he was eating about a foot of licorice lace at one point, but boys will be boys and the backyard looks nearly the same as it did when you left. Apparently he was digging a hole, playing archaeologist or something. He mentioned something about pyramids and asked if I knew anything about Stonehenge."

Gideon nodded, walked quickly to the back door and opened it. Glanced out at the yard. Everything looked normal except for a mound of dirt Reid had been digging in and a scattering of green army men and ninja turtles sprawled in said dirt. The profiler exhaled, relieved, and went to find Reid. Rapped on the closed bathroom door.

"Reid? I'm home. Kevin is leaving now."

"Okay. Tell him bye for me!" Reid shouted through the door. The water turned on again, there was a loud splash and little boy sound effects. Sounded like Godzilla was taking over the bathroom.

Kevin had agreed to come for the next 4 days in a row, in the afternoons, and Reid was fine with that. Most of the young man's classes were currently either in the morning or the night on alternate days, and the extra cash was welcome. 12 bucks an hour to sit on the couch and study was good money. Gideon used the time to shop, run errands, pop into the bureau and get caught up to speed on current BSU cases, speak to Reid's case manager, meet Rossi for coffee and generally regain his reputation as an adult.

Exactly two weeks after Reid's cast was removed, Gideon met with District Attorney Aaron Hotchner, Richard Martin and Reid's Virginia Caseworker, as well as Reid's prospective Guardian Ad Litem, to discuss where they were and what the plans were for Reid's continued stay in foster care. The boy's positive test results for Chlamydia were brought up and discussed as were the pros and cons of finding a therapist for Reid. Hotchner was silent for most of the conversation, expression drawn and serious, taking rapid notes. Gideon had made plans for the young D.A. to accompany him back home to meet Reid after the meeting, just as an introduction, and Hotchner had solemnly agreed.

* * *

The young attorney was silent on the drive home aside from responding to the odd question Gideon asked. He was the opposite of Reid, personality wise, who was a chatter box and almost impossible to shut up once he got talking about something of interest. Also, whereas Reid was happy-go-lucky as a general rule, Aaron Hotchner was quiet and pensive, brooding. He reviewed his files during the drive, highlighting the odd word or set of words, adding more notes to his ubiquitous note pad. Reid wore his heart on his sleeve, but Gideon had already figured out that Hotchner was a rather inscrutable individual. Reid was socially awkward and had trouble gauging what was normal in most situations and Hotchner seemed like he had spent his formative years at a preparatory school or military academy.

Gideon wondered how Reid would react to the man.

It was almost six in the afternoon by the time Gideon pulled into the driveway and pulled the keys from the ignition. The sun was just beginning to settle down for the day, the sky golden and the shadows hazy and indistinct. The perfect, early-autumn evening.

"This is it. Um... I'll introduce you to Reid's babysitter and then hunt down the wunderkind himself. He knows you're coming but that doesn't mean much."

"What is that?" Hotchner asked, pointing to a series of complicated looking patterns written on the driveway in neon green sidewalk chalk.

"Oh. Apparently that is some encoded message to extra terrestrials or something. I never really got a straight answer on that one, though." Gideon said, chuckling. "Right now, the car is positioned perfectly over some Voodoo symbol or something that apparently protects us from evil spirits on the freeway."

Aaron Hotchner smiled, just a little, and followed the agent into the sprawling two storey house (four storeys, if, like Reid, you considered the basement and the tiny attic crawl-space to be separate "storeys").

Kevin was sleeping on the couch, his notes and text books strewn beneath the coffee table and amongst errant Lego pieces and Polaroid photos Reid was in the process of taping into his ever growing scrap-book. His newest chapter was entitled "Odd objects I found in Gideon's basement: October 1st-4th, 1990" and was a collection of Polaroid photographs of crap most people wouldn't have considered selling in a yard sale.

Among the objects Reid had found of interest: a ceramic garden gnome; a garden hose that had been gnawed through the middle by some unknown pest; a broken manual grass cutter; the carriage, sans 2 wheels, Gideon had been pushed in as an infant (which Reid insisted be called a perambulator); a broken fan from the 1950s; an old wind-up phonograph and a 1970s fondue set. These items now resided in the boy's bedroom giving the space an even more eclectic look.

Kevin jerked awake as he heard Gideon approach, looking mildly guilty for falling asleep on his watch.

"He...Reid...he's in the backyard. He's apparently working on a surprise for you or something. I just... I must have drifted off." The young man explained guiltily, standing and immediately extending his hand to shake Hotchner's.

"Yeah, that's fine. At least we know where he is. Kevin, this is Aaron Hotchner. He is going to be Reid's lawyer if his case goes to trial." Gideon said. Hotchner leaned forward, took the proffered hand and shook it firmly.

"Nice to meet you," Kevin said, still looking mildly guilty for falling asleep. He began to collect his books and papers from the floor.

"He's been out there all day again. He was in here looking for duct tape earlier and I figured duct tape was probably okay. We found some in the basement. He's popped in a few times for water, but other than that, he's been working pretty hard. Um, I should warn you, there is a tarp set up outside, held up by rope. I'm not sure when that was put up, actually..."

Gideon exhaled loudly. He didn't like the sound of that. Kevin was quick to defend himself.

"He promised he wasn't breaking any of the conditions of your contract and that he needed privacy to think and I assumed it was part of some make believe game or..."

"Kevin, it's fine. I know what Reid is like."

The young man smiled, quickly stuffed his books into his backpack. Waited patiently while Gideon counted out his pay.

"Contract?" Hotchner asked after the younger man had departed.

"Until recently, I have watched Reid 24-7. When I decided to leave him with a regular human mortal, I drafted up a contract and asked him to sign it. It is a list of conditions he must abide to. No playing with matches, power tools or climbing the local power lines. No hitch-hiking or leaving the city limits. The usual boundaries most parents have to set for not-quite-ten-year-old children." Gideon said facetiously.

Aaron Hotchner's eyebrows raised just the slightest degree.

"I assume you're joking?"

"Exaggerating a little, I guess, but unfortunately not joking. A copy of the actual contract is taped on the fridge, if you want to take a look at it later. Reid, he... due to his experiences I don't think he really knows what is normal and what is expected of him. Despite his intelligence, sometimes he has to be told not to do things that probably seem like common sense to most kids half his age."

Hotchner nodded thoughtfully.

"Well, I can't speak for you, but I am sort of curious to see what he's working on in the backyard," Gideon muttered. Hotchner nodded to indicate he was ready to meet the young prodigy, and followed the agent throughout the first level of the house and out the back door, ignoring the scattered toys that kept cropping up like land mines.

"Reid? You out here?" Gideon called loudly as he stepped out onto the back porch, followed closely by the immaculately dressed attorney. There was a huffing noise, what sounded like a muttered curse and then: "Gideon? Is that _you_? I thought you wouldn't be home until six! You said you wouldn't be home until six or six thirty!"

"I said I wouldn't be later than six or six thirty. It's 10 after six now. Anyway, our guest is here. Would you like to come and say hello, please?"

Just like Kevin had warned, there indeed was a massive tarp hanging across the yard as a blind, held up by a piece of yellow nylon rope that had been tied from the top boughs of two trees in the yard. Written on the tarp in sharpie marker were the words: The 9th GREATEST WONDER OF THE MODERN WORLD. ADMISSION: 1$

Gideon walked forward half a dozen steps, tried to see around the tarp but the sides were obscured as well.

"Reid? Come on. Come and say hello."

"Hey... Gideon? You know my watch? I think I need a new one. It's an hour behind for some reason. And really, I am in the middle of something." Reid called back, obviously out of breath. There was a wet slapping sound, a slightly louder curse word that Gideon obviously ignored.

"Remember, you set your watch an hour behind? You claimed that you needed to go to sleep later because of the rats...Reid...come on...come say hi." Gideon glanced over at the attorney. Smiled awkwardly.

Aaron Hotchner glanced around the yard, his expression somewhere between amusement and concern.

"Depending on what you're doing, you can go back to that in about ten minutes." Gideon said, trying to coax the kid out from behind the tarp.

"Um... I can't come in the house. I am absolutely filthy. Even by human standards."

Gideon shook his head. He had no clue what that last comment meant, and was too tired to try and figure that one out.

"Well, come up on the porch." Gideon suggested when it was apparent Reid felt no need to add anything more to the conversation. He knew the attorney was paying attention to this interaction, filing each word and nuance away for later consideration.

"I really would like to but I am sort of busy right now, Gideon. Why don't you offer our guest a drink? Coffee or something... and I'll be with you shortly?"

Despite being a naturally serious individual, Gideon had the distinct sense that Hotchner was trying not to laugh.

"Reid, this is not up for debate. You can come out from your fort or whatever-it-is now, or I will pull that tarp down and..."

"No! I'm coming. I'm coming..._lousy watch_..."

Hotchner met Gideon's eyes, raised his eyebrows slightly. Judging from Jason Gideon's tone of voice and expression, this sort of interaction was typical.

There was a huffing noise, as if the kid was out of breath and then a rustling noise and the boy scrambled out from under the tarp on his hands and knees. He stood up and ironically tried to dust the mud on his sweat pants off.

Aaron Hotchner stared at the child before him, at a total loss for words. For an almost-ten-year-old, Spencer Reid was tiny. But that wasn't what had the attorney at a loss for words. The boy was shirtless and barefoot and covered head to foot in black mud. He was wearing a baseball helmet with a maglite flashlight hastily duct-taped to the top to make what appeared to be a very shoddy miner's cap. Overtop of his eyeglasses were what appeared to be oversized snorkelling goggles, streaked with mud. Hotchner glanced back at Gideon and waited for the older man to comment. The behavioural profiler seemed lost for words, too.

"Okay, Reid. That tarp is coming down now." Gideon said simply when his brain reconnected, striding forward determinedly.

"No! It's not done!" Reid protested. But it was too late. Gideon pulled the tarp down in one fluid motion. Stood back and stared. Blinked. Blinked again.

The structure was about 10 feet long by 10 feet wide by about 7 or 8 feet tall. A miniature pyramid made out of what appeared to be mud, cinder blocks, boards and...

"Is that quick-drying cement?" Gideon asked flatly, inspecting the pyramid. Aaron Hotchner watched the older man carefully. As far as Jason Gideon was concerned, his foster son had succeeded in building a death trap.

"Look, I didn't use power tools or leave the street. This teenager sold me all this stuff from his garage for only 40 bucks. It's structurally sound, why don't you come on in? I've been working on it at nights too; I wanted it to be a surprise. It's a miniature replica of the _Chichen Itza_ pyramid of the Mayans and when it's completed you will be able to climb up the sides and stand on the top. It's not completely accurate, because the top is flatter than it should be, but it's big enough for a small telescope and I just thought...oh yeah... the inside is supported by a wooden structure and metal beams. I assure you, it's completely safe and just wait until you see my design to light up the inside..." Reid stammered, somewhere between excited and uneasy.

Aaron Hotchner could tell the little kid in front of him was trying exceptionally hard to figure out if his foster father's voice was so flat because the man was a) totally shocked by his foster son's genius and ingenuity or b) very, very angry.

Gideon just stared at the miniature pyramid, not sure how to respond. What was the appropriate course of action for this? What would Dr. Spock have recommended?

"You built this in six days? Five days?"

"I had the blueprints worked out weeks ago. It was just lucky I managed to find that kid willing to sell me all this old junk. Isn't it great? He helped me move the bricks and everything in a wheelbarrow. And to be totally honest, he did most of the heavy lifting. I paid him using my caloric intake fund money. He worked cheap, only 5 bucks an hour and these two other kids helped out, only a few years older than me, for free, and we got lots done every hour, as per my instructions. His dad builds houses or something and these bricks were just collecting dust in the garage. The kid who sold me this stuff is named Danny. He lives at the end of the street. He's 14. I forget the other kids names, but the one closest to my age wants to be an Egyptologist, isn't that cool? Oh yeah, his name is Cody. Cody and I have been painting hieroglyphs inside with enamel paint, but we made a plaster wall that we carved hieroglyphs into and that is coming together really well. I forget the other guy's name though... he pretty much just helped with the construction and moving stuff from A to B but he wasn't as excited as the rest of us were..." Reid was rambling faster than usual. His brain had obviously deduced that he was in some sort of trouble.

"Reid, I want you to go inside and put your dirty clothes in the hamper, and then get a bath. I will bring you some clean clothes and leave them on the toilet in about five minutes."

"But... I didn't break any of the rules in your contract. No playing with power tools or anything flammable. I used my own money and I didn't stress my leg, leave the street, nothing you expressly forbade..."

"Reid. Please. Just go inside and get a bath. I will bring you some clean clothes in a bit."

"You would have liked it more if you waited until it was done..." Reid mumbled and limped into the house, closing the screen door very, very gently.

And that was Aaron Hotchner's first introduction to Spencer Reid.

* * *

**End of Chapter Note:** Okay, fun fun fun. Dates and ages in fan fic! Sheesh! I am making Hotch 25 years old in this story, meaning he would be about 39 in season 1 of the show (Thomas Gibson was born in 1962 so he was actually 43 in 2005). I know I know... "Hotch" was still in high school in 1987 as far as the show is concerned, if I am remembering that episode where he is cleaning out the garage, correctly.

This chapter and the ones following might take a while to finish because I will also be re-watching the 1989 made for TV movie "Small Sacrifices" to help me get into the mood for writing Hotch effectively. Why? Because the prosecutor in Small Sacrifices, "Frank Joziak" (played by a young John Shea and representing real life prosecutor Fred Hugi) behaves much the way Hotch does on the show but is playing the part of a prosecutor (perfect, right?). If you haven't read the book by Anne Rule or watched the TV movie, I really recommend you do. For a made-for-TV movie the acting is excellent (especially young Emily Perkins playing "Karen Downs" (Christie Downs) and John Shea. John Shea's representation of the D.A. in this movie is superb, or maybe I just find him supernaturally hot. Either way, this chapter will take longer to write than the others.

If that doesn't make you want to watch the movie, well... it's free to watch on youtube as of January 3rd, 2012 (simply type in "Small sacrifices part 1 (1/14)" in the youtube search engine and click on the vid uploaded by "MagicJems"). Only caveat: you will never think of the song "Hungry like the Wolf" by Duran Duran the same way again.

Oh yeah, in the Criminal Minds episode "Plain Sight" Reid's birthday is said to have been "three days ago" and the date of that scene was October 12, 2005. He was 24 then, making his date of birth October 9th, 1981, meaning he'd be turning 10 on October 9th, 1991, but this story is currently taking place in early October of 1990 and he is already 10. I guess I screwed up the math (also, other episodes are kind of hazy on Reid's birthday) so I have decided to make him turn 10 on October 9th, 1990 as a compromise. In the episode where Riley Jenkins is discussed, Jenkins is killed in 1984 (wasn't it the summer of 1984? Or was that 1986? BAH!) if memory serves me correctly and I think Morgan says that Reid would have been 4 at the time and Riley would have been 6 (but it's been a while since I saw that episode, so I may have screwed that up, too).

Anyway, I am making Reid's birthday October 9th, 1980. It's easier to explain referring to an almost-10 year old as 10 for 2 months than an almost 9 year old as 10 for a year and 2 months... Yes, character birthdays can be tricky when they aren't clearly stated in the fandom and when the writer in question researches factoids that aren't really that important compulsively, but forgets to check important things like the character's birthday.

Also, the pyramid-fort. I debated writing it into this fic. I made some pretty crazy forts fairly quickly as a kid so I know it can be done. Even though this is a pretty angst-filled fic, Reid would still be a little kid and I wanted to write him doing something (relatively) normal. If you were the type of kid that got frustrated playing with Rubik's cubes or following Lego instructions the pyramid fort will seem completely unrealistic, but in theory, if there were enough bricks and someone to help wheel them back and forth... it could be done. Making a tee-pee or sweat-lodge or something would have been really easy, but I think of Reid as the type of kid who would want a challenge. And even though I am almost 30 that is something I would consider doing now, if I owned my own yard. It _would_ be a death trap, though, if improperly constructed. A pit in the ground with a shell wall of slanted cinder blocks hanging over said pit? Anyone who has ever tried to pick up one cinder block can imagine how deadly it would be if that "pyramid" came tumbling down. I once read about a kid with an engineering spirit trying to tunnel out a fort in a sand dune. The kid made a lot of progress before the dune collapsed on him, burying him alive. That story still gives me chills.

I drank too much Coca Cola. I will upload Chapter 35 whenever I complete it. Please review.


	35. Chapter 35: Hotchner becomes Hotch

**Title:** Losing My Religion by Lexikal (Chapter Thirty Five)  
**Rating:** M for graphic violence against a child and language (in the first chapter, chapter 8 and chapter 10 so far. Chapter 28 has Reid discussing specific acts of abuse but not at length.)  
**Fandom:** Criminal Minds  
**Summary:** Spencer Reid, 10, is removed from his father's "care" after being violently attacked and is fostered by his old mentor, Jason Gideon. This is a sequel to "That's me in the corner". Features child abuse, do not read if underage.

**Author's Note: **This fic will not be getting into lengthy legal discussions in legalese. I could write that but to write those scenes effectively I would spend so much time studying American legal jargon that I'd lose the will to live. *dull smile* Plus, Reid is already pedantic enough; I figure this story doesn't need excessive medicalese or legalese or psycho-babble in addition. Either that... or I am just exceptionally lazy. Please review.

* * *

"_**Do not spoil what you have by desiring what you have not; remember that what you now have was once among the things you only hoped for." – Epicurus**_

"That is pretty amazing." Aaron Hotchner said after Reid had retreated inside to clean himself up and was out of earshot. The young attorney had what could almost be considered a smile on his handsome, chiselled face. Hotchner carefully approached the structure, touched it gently, as if confirming that it wasn't a mirage or going to collapse or perhaps lift off into the atmosphere in a storm of smoke and fire.

"Yeah. Amazing." Gideon sighed tiredly. "Amazing that he actually thought there was a hope in hell I'd let this thing stand for more than a minute after it's grand unveiling. That's all he needs. For this to collapse on him..."

The younger man nodded, just a slight, barely perceptible nod. "If it collapses, I'd imagine there'd be some legal trouble."

"Reid is going to flip when I tell him the reincarnation of Chichen Itza has been officially slated for demolition. Then again, while I didn't expressly forbid the construction of scaled-down mesoamerican pyramids in the back yard it stands to reason that _this_... this is a bit over the top." Gideon said, sighing again. "Sort of a shame. It does look pretty cool."

"I assume he has the necessary permits?" Hotchner said, not an ounce of sarcasm in his tone. Gideon stared at him for a moment and the young attorney smiled. His smiles were subtle, nuanced expressions unlike Reid's giddy, toothy grins.

"Yeah. I can maybe get him on the permit angle. He'll have to concede to your legal expertise." Gideon said, rubbing a hand through his hair. "This kid is going to make me go grey long before my time."

"I am sure this is in violation of some city by-law. I'd have to look up the exact specifics." Hotchner said, stepping to the side to check out the structure from a different angle, boyish features somehow both stern and playful at the same time.

"Why don't we go inside and wait for the reappearance of the Sun God himself, or whoever he is playing at being today?" Gideon said, tone somewhere between amused and disappointed. The part of Gideon that was still ten years old was growing increasingly fascinated with the structure. "Can you tell Reid this violates about a half dozen zoning regulations or something? From what I can tell, he is not an expert on property law just yet."

"I'll do my best." Hotchner said dryly. Gideon nodded. "Would you like something to drink, Mr. Hotchner? Coffee or something?"

"Coffee is fine." Hotchner said, following the older man back into the house, watching silently as the profiler nearly tripped over a battery powered remote control truck and ended up banging his elbow on the wall instead. Gideon swore mildly and rubbed his funny bone. "Sorry about the mess..." Gideon trailed, picking up the toy and carrying it back to the kid's room where he unceremoniously tossed it on the bed. "He can build pyramids, but hasn't quite mastered the art of picking up after himself."

Hotchner nodded again. Loud splashing could be heard from inside the washroom and what sounded like plastic toys being smashed into the side of the tub. There were sound effects of lasers and explosions and the screeching of car tires and Reid's voice booming out what appeared to be a television broadcast of grave importance.

"_Quick, prepare to launch the missiles. They've taken out Moscow, they will not get New York! If you can still hear this emergency broadcast, please be safe. Please know that the president himself sends his prayers in this time of need and that the future is not certain and the fight is never futile..._"

"I am sensing a theme here." Hotchner said, that ghost of a smile still on his lips, momentarily stopping outside the bathroom door to eavesdrop on whatever make believe reality Reid was living out.

"It's probably my fault. I brought home a book called Chariots of the Gods and Reid has been obsessed with all things ancient and extra-terrestrial for the last three weeks or so." Gideon sighed and knocked on the door.

"Reid? I hear a lot of splashing. If you flood the bathroom I am definitely not going to be pleased!" Gideon called in his I'm-not-angry-but-I'm-getting-there voice. The splashing stopped.

"Gideon?" Reid called from inside the washroom.

"Yes?"

"It's kind of muddy in here. After my bath do you want me to clean the bathroom or..."

"After your bath, you can get dressed. I'll clean it myself later." Gideon said and walked off to make their coffee. The attorney trailed him, eyes scanning over the inside of the residence. Gideon pulled the coffee grounds out of the freezer and began to spoon coffee into the machine's filter. Hotchner was eyeing Reid's work on the fridge, expression unreadable.

"This is the contract?" The younger man finally asked and pointed to the detailed document taped up next to Reid's drawings. Gideon nodded.

"It's quite specific. But there is no clause expressly forbidding the construction of backyard pyramids, so technically restraining his access to the...Nintendo, Computer, Local Library, Convenience store... or... Television would be in violation of your agreement here." Hotchner said in the same dry tone. Gideon smiled. He was beginning to get the younger man's sense of humour. If one could call it that.

"_Gideon?"_ Reid suddenly called from down the hall, much louder than was absolutely necessary.

"What?"

"You didn't bring me my clothes! Can you bring me my chinos and my socks and my ninja turtles slippers and one of my t-shirts and my sweater...the brown argyle one? Nix the t-shirt, okay? Bring me one of my cotton dress shirts and the brown argyle sweater. And my ninja Turtles boxer shorts? That sounds good."

Gideon stared at Hotchner and rolled his eyes. "I'll go get his stuff. Um...coffee mugs are above the sink. Feel free to use any mug except the Ninja Turtles or Star Trek ones. The couch is a good place to sit. If there is any junk on it, feel free to just throw it on the floor."

Hotchner nodded and watched the older man walk away. Heard him rifling through the boy's closet and the back and forth shouting regarding Ninja Turtles slippers and where they might be at this point in time. Apparently Reid was certain he had left them under his bed, but Gideon couldn't currently find them and slippers did not just get up and walk away by themselves so they had to be somewhere else.

The attorney smiled wanly at the exchange, opened the cupboard above the sink and selected a designated mug from the cabinet as he waited for the coffee to finish brewing. He hadn't really spoken directly to Spencer Reid yet, but he already liked him. He was starting to understand why the boy's foster father was so protective of the child and so committed to his safety and happiness. A child like this one definitely didn't pop up on the radar every day.

* * *

Gideon and Hotchner were sitting in the living room, drinking coffee and making relative small talk when Reid limped into the room. Gideon noticed the boy was using his crutches and smiled to himself. It was a pretty juvenile form of parental manipulation._ You can't punish me when I am small and hurt and need crutches, can you? _

"So your leg is hurting you now, then, is that it?" Gideon said dryly. Reid shrugged.

"I know you want me to use them more often and not over-extend myself, so that is what I am doing. Oh, I brought these for your perusal."

Both Hotchner and Gideon were presented with several pieces of blue construction paper. Drawings of the backyard pyramid from various angles covered the pages in pencil which had then been traced over in white pencil crayon.

"So these are your blueprints, huh?" Gideon said, looking over the plans.

"Yes. As you can see, the top of the structure is evenly balanced and the weight is displaced evenly on those beams, there..." Reid leaned over and pointed to his drawings, highlighting the apparent safety of his work.

"These are very impressive blueprints, Reid, and a fine example of your superlative drafting skills, but the pyramid is still coming down." Gideon said.

"But..."

"No buts. Your new attorney informs me that your pyramid violates several zoning codes. Also, unless you are willing to pay to have the structure independently assessed by a licensed safety inspector..."

"I don't have the money to do that!" Reid squealed, obviously upset.

"And that's why it's coming down." Gideon finished.

"But the blueprints..." Reid started, nodding toward the construction paper in both men's hands as if the mere existence of the "blueprints" was proof of his creation's structural integrity.

"Even the Titanic had detailed blueprints and look how that turned out." Gideon said seriously, eyebrows rising just a little. "Be sensible. If you were me, what would you do? If your child built a contraption like that in the backyard? What would you do? Seriously, Reid."

Reid thought for a moment, expression gloomy. "I'd tear it down. If it collapses you could be charged with negligible homicide or something. I mean, if I was inside and it were to collapse and I got killed, if all those things happened, then you could possibly get into trouble and so I would...if I were in your position...most likely...tear it down. But it won't collapse because it is designed to withstand thousands of years of-"

"Thank you. I am glad you can appreciate my position on this issue. And until it comes down, I need your word that you will not play in or around it or invite other kids over to play in or around it. Can I count on you for that?"

"Yeah...but...can we at least take photos of it? Before we take it down?" Reid asked forlornly, scratching at what appeared to be a spider bite on the side of his neck.

"We'll take photos of the exterior. I don't want anybody going inside it. It's a lawsuit waiting to happen." Gideon said, looking at Hotchner for back up. Hotchner nodded, expression deadly serious. Reid glanced at Hotchner, back at Gideon, then back at Hotchner. He sighed dejectedly. He was outmatched and he knew it.

"This really sucks."

"Now that that's over with... this is Mr. Hotchner. He is going to be your attorney. He came over to meet you and introduce himself." Gideon said, nodding in the younger man's direction.

"Hi," Reid mumbled shyly, as if just noticing the man's existence for the first time; which, Gideon knew, was probably not that far from the truth. Reid developed tunnel vision when he was interested in something and seemed to tune the rest of the world out unless said interest was forcefully removed from the picture.

"Hi. Nice to meet you...Spencer? Or do you prefer to be called Reid?" Hotchner asked, extending his hand for a shake. Reid leaned over and shook the lawyer's hand.

"I prefer Reid, thank you."

"Reid, then. It's nice to meet you."

"What do you prefer I call you?" Reid asked. He still hadn't stopped shaking Aaron Hotchner's hand.

"You can call me Aaron, if you want. That's my first name. Or Hotch is fine. Whichever you prefer." Hotchner gently extricated his hand from the boy's without comment. He had a feeling Reid would have kept shaking it if he had let him.

"Hotch? Why Hotch?"

"It's a shortened version of my last name." Hotchner said, shrugging.

"Okay. I guess I will call you Hotch, then." Reid said before leaning over and shaking his foster father none too subtly. "Hey Gideon? Doesn't _Hotch_ sound like the name of a TV detective or something? Like Kojak or Hunter or Murdock from the A-Team or Kolchak or..."

"Reid. I believe Hotch was trying to talk to you." Gideon said gently, trying to bring the boy's attention back to the conversation. Hotch smiled and leaned forward in an attempt to regain the kid's focus, eyes both warm and sharp at the same time. Gideon had a gut feeling the man was passionate about his job and about protecting victims but could and would be cutthroat in the court room.

"We're not going to talk about anything heavy or anything, are we?" Reid asked warily, darting a furtive glance back at Gideon. "I mean, you aren't going to question me about my experiences?" Hotch shook his head.

"No. I just wanted to meet you."

"You... so you have read all about me, probably, then? Read my files and everything?" Reid asked uncertainly, suddenly self-conscious.

"Yes."

"Do you think I have a case? If I don't want to go back home, I mean, do you think I can make a good case for myself not to? If it comes to that?"

Aaron Hotchner nodded. "Yes. I think you have a case, Reid."

"Are you a good lawyer? You look young."

"I like to think I am reasonably adept at my job."

"Have you worked on cases like mine before?"

"Child abuse cases? Some. My primary focus is homicide cases."

Reid nodded and sighed as if he were deciding whether or not he was developing a headache. "You... what's your conviction rate?"

"I win about 90% of the cases I take on." Hotchner admitted solemnly.

"So... if this does go to trial...would it be a criminal case? And if it's a criminal case...then that means... if my Dad is found guilty he would be in a lot of trouble, right? Maybe even go to prison?" Reid sounded decidedly uneasy just thinking about that possibility. Going "home" terrified Reid but being the driving force behind his own father's incarceration obviously didn't sit much better.

Hotchner looked over at the boy's foster father. Gideon gave a small nod of his head, indicating his silent permission to continue. The profiler's serious brown eyes were both sad and determined and Hotch saw the message in them. _Tell him the truth. He already knows this. He just needs to hear it from you, his lawyer._

"Yes, he could face prison time if he is convicted of abusing you and the case is tried in criminal court." Hotch said calmly. He was treating Reid like an adult, not coddling the boy, but being up front and honest. It was the best tactic to take given the situation.

"And if he goes to prison for...hurting me...and other prisoners find out they could kill him, right? Don't people that hurt kids... don't they get attacked in prison all the time and shanked or whatever it's called and..."

"Reid, I don't want you to worry about that stuff. Right now my job is to keep you safe and work to see that you stay safe." The young man's voice was a little sterner than usual, just slightly. Reid probably hadn't even noticed the slight edge that had crept into his voice, but Gideon had. He was trained to notice such things. Gideon knew the young lawyer could probably care less what happened to Reid's so-called father.

"But if it's in criminal court and he goes to jail... I am not sure I want him to go to jail...go to jail just because of me..." Reid looked worried and upset. He glanced over at Gideon with huge, sad eyes. Gideon pressed his lips together and resisted the urge to hug him, replayed the child's comments through his mind and felt a newfound hatred for William Reid.

Hotch just nodded to indicate he had heard the boy.

"I can see why you wouldn't want that." Hotch said eventually. "Really, I don't want to get your Dad in trouble. That's not my job. My job is to make sure you are safe and to make sure the system is legally held accountable for your safety."

"If it goes to criminal court, will I have to testify?" Reid asked then, glancing once again at Gideon. Gideon smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring manner.

"I would try to keep that from happening, but it's a possibility. Do you think you would be okay with that? With testifying, if it came to that?"

The boy glanced down at his lap. Gideon reached over and squeezed Reid's shoulder gently. Reid eventually shrugged, obviously distressed by the possibility of testifying but not wanting to admit it and appear like a "baby".

"It's okay if you don't know right now. We're just talking. Okay? You won't have to do anything you don't want to do." Hotchner said. His dark eyes focused intently on the kid's hunched, awkward form and took in every detail, every tired sigh and awkward, distressed movement.

"_Yeah._.." Reid mumbled uneasily, obviously not convinced.

"Reid...if you could decide what happens to you, who you live with, what would _you _want? What would you say to a judge if he asked you that question right now?" Hotch asked, eyes bright and focused. Whatever Reid said next would be very, very important.

"I'd want to live with Gideon." Reid admitted resolutely, glancing over at the profiler, smiling uneasily. They had never really talked about where he would live long-term if his father was taken out of the picture and Reid obviously felt he might be overstepping his bounds. Gideon smiled back reassuringly.

"What about your Mom? If it could be guaranteed that she was doing well and taking her medications, and your Dad wasn't there and couldn't come near you? Would you want to live with your Mom, then, if that was a possibility?" Hotch asked softly, his eyes never leaving the child's drawn, uneasy face.

"I...I _guess_ so."

"But your first choice would be to live with Agent Gideon? Here in Virginia?" Hotchner prodded gently.

Gideon watched Hotch as Hotch watched Reid. If Gideon hadn't known better, he would have assumed the young attorney had been trained in profiling. Aaron Hotchner was obviously highly intuitive and paid very close attention to tone of voice and the words and phrases chosen in response to questions, to facial expressions and body language. That much was obvious. Good lawyers instinctively did this, but Hotch seemed more perceptive and focused than most. Gideon doubted very little, if anything, got by the young prosecutor.

"Yeah... if Gideon is okay with that. If he wouldn't mind." Reid had apparently decided that his Ninja Turtles slippers were in need of his undivided attention. Hotch watched the boy's face closely for at least half a minute before turning and facing Gideon.

"Gideon, if it were determined that Reid couldn't return home- for whatever reason- would you be willing to foster him long term? Or possibly adopt him?"

Gideon nodded immediately. Cleared his throat. He glanced over at Reid, who was still staring at his feet, obviously afraid of the answer.

"Yes. I would be willing to adopt him."

Reid looked up, a mixture of uncertainty and excitement and doubt and surprise clouding his young features. There were too many emotions on the boy's face to single just one or two out. But he looked- more than anything- relieved. Whatever happened, nobody could change Gideon's response or how he felt. Gideon wanted him. Wanted him like he was his real son.

Aaron Hotchner smiled. "Okay. Well, that's that. The courts do favour biological family reunification but in this case... let's just say I will do my best. I can promise you one thing, though, Reid."

Reid glanced up warily. Bit his lower lip. His eyes were huge and full of unasked questions.

"I promise that whatever happens, your Dad will never have an opportunity to hurt you again. Ever."

"You can't promise that! I got sent home before and that was after I had been away for almost two years and even then they sent me back and..."

"I promise. I will work this case until that is a reality. Okay? I give you my word."

"And if they make me go home anyway? To him?" Reid demanded.

"They won't."

"But if they _do_?" Reid persisted.

"I will keep working your case and trying to help you. _If_ that happens. But that won't happen. I can guarantee you that."

"Nothing in life is guaranteed." Reid said solemnly, sounding much, much older than his almost-ten years. Gideon and Hotch exchanged knowing looks. Eventually Hotch nodded.

"You're right. But within reason..."

Reid sighed shakily. Bit his lip again. Obviously, the idea of hoping was scary. Hope was scary. There were too many unknowns, and those unknowns were terrifying. Finally the child just nodded to show that he had heard and that he appreciated the sentiment. But in his heart he didn't expect the type of rosy outcome Hotch was so certain was on the horizon.

"Good." Hotch said, smiling a bit, as much as he could given the circumstances.

"But it doesn't matter if you fail." Reid mumbled finally, speaking so low that both men almost missed it.

"Why's that?" Hotch asked, glancing over at Gideon as if the older man might hold the key to that last cryptic comment.

"If they try to send me back home again...let's just say, I will never let them send me back home again. Not if _he_ is still there. I will run away... or something... for good before that ever happens. I will never go back." Reid spoke softly, but the conviction in his voice spoke depths about his situation and his desperation. Aaron Hotchner nodded in understanding and tried not to show any emotion, but the child's words had suddenly given him a chill.

"I understand that. I think I'd be tempted to do the same." Hotch finally said. There was silence then. What else more was there, really, to say?

"So..." Hotch said after a minute when Reid failed to respond, lightening his tone, changing tactics. "I hear you're really good at that Nintendo?"

Reid shrugged ever so slightly. Slowly he lifted his head. Hotch smiled at him encouragingly and Reid smiled back. Just a tiny bit, but the mood in the room suddenly wasn't so desperate and claustrophobic.

"You want to play with me? Maybe teach me how to use this thing?" Hotch inquired, indicating the Nintendo with a nod of his head.

"You've never played before?" Reid asked, glancing over at Gideon with a sly grin on his face.

"No. But I bet I'll do alright."

"You want to bet? How much? I bet you five bucks I'll beat the pants off you..."

Gideon mock groaned. Silently, he was eternally grateful for the young attorney's intelligence and tact. This evening could have gone very, very differently, and not for the better.

"Well, gentlemen... I think I am going to go read for a bit. Aaron, are you okay down here with this rascal for a bit?" Gideon asked Hotch. Hotch just nodded. Already Reid was collecting the Nintendo cartridges and laying them out on the table in alphabetical order, presumably so that his new lawyer could choose which game he wanted to fail miserably at.

Gideon mouthed a silent "thanks" to the young man and quickly went up to his room. He wanted to record the conversation and events of the day while they were still fresh in his mind, especially the hopeless quality of Spencer's voice, his fear of testifying and getting his father into trouble, his threat of running away if backed into a corner by the very system created to keep him "safe". All of those comments were very, very important to the boy's future and to how his case was handled. Children Reid's age generally didn't make threats unless they felt they had no other options left and were terrified, and the repercussions of ignoring those threats was often tragic. Also... something about Reid's earlier tone of voice, the quality of his voice, both monotonous and determined, had the profiler deeply concerned.

He hadn't known ten year olds could sound _that_ incredibly tired, or worse... that hopeless. He had known, of course, that Reid was hurting and scared and traumatized, but the bleak determination he had heard in the voice of the child he considered his son was not something he would soon forget and he planned to talk to Reid about it later, when the kid had calmed down and "beaten the pants" off Hotch. When he had regained a bit of his sense of power and control and autonomy.

The words kept repeating in the profiler's mind as he entered his room, gently closed the door, pulled the journal in which he was recording Reid's day to day behaviour and comments out of his night stand and dug around in his pocket for a ballpoint. Those words spoke of a despair and fear and lack of faith in the system that, while understandable, alarmed and deeply saddened the profiler.

_...If they try to send me back home again...let's just say, I will never let them send me back home again. Not if he is still there. I will run away... or something... for good before that ever happens. I will never go back..._

Gideon wrote the date in the journal and tried to formulate his thoughts, shut his eyes and took a few deep, slow breaths. He could hear Spencer giggling downstairs, the sounds of the Nintendo. Hotch's odd, overly serious comments. Reid's loud assertion that yes, Mario Brothers was easy and no, a deal was indeed a deal.

* * *

**Another chapter down**. We still have Reid's birthday, some angsty scenes, the kid on the stand and the angst that will come with that and of course, the grand finale chapter (which is top secret!)

Like always, please review. And like I said in another Author's notes, I realize Reid would be turning 10 on October 9th of 1991, but I botched that up early in the story and as a compromise I have him turning 10 on October 9th, 1990 (this Chapter takes place October 4th, 1990), meaning that Gideon has been referring to Reid as "ten" for the past two months even though Reid was nine years and 10 months old (at the start of this fic) and is turning ten in a few days. Also, yes, Hotch would be younger than 25 in the fall of 1990 according to the show, but I took some liberties with that. They made Hotch much younger than the age of his real life counterpart, Thomas Gibson. Hotch was apparently still in high school in 1987, according to the show, but Thomas Gibson was boring in 1962 meaning that while Hotch might have been 20 or 21 in 1990 as far as the fandom is concerned, Gibson would have been 28 or so in October of 1990. I am making Hotch 25, which would make him 39 in season 1, when Reid is turning 24. Which I think is reasonable. I can see Hotch as 39 in the first season and about 45 or nearly 46 now. Again, it's fan fiction. And while many might consider this fic to be AU, I don't consider it straight up AU because this stuff _could_ have happened within the official fandom. Not likely, but it's not definite AU. Anyway, yeah. Please review. And as cool as the pyramid-fort-thingamjingy was it has to come down. As Reid says... that sucks. But really? It would come down. And in case anyone is wondering, no other team members will be in this fic. Morgan is from Chicago and would be too young, as would Garcia and... yeah, this is it. :)


	36. Chapter 36: Danny

**Title:** Losing My Religion by Lexikal (Chapter Thirty Six)  
**Rating:** M for graphic violence against a child and language (in the first chapter, chapter 8 and chapter 10 so far. Chapter 28 has Reid discussing specific acts of abuse but not at length.)  
**Fandom:** Criminal Minds  
**Summary:** Spencer Reid, 10, is removed from his father's "care" after being violently attacked and is fostered by his old mentor, Jason Gideon. This is a sequel to "That's me in the corner". Features child abuse, do not read if underage.

**Author's Note: **Wow, the first month of 2012 is passing too quickly. I need to ramble so if you want to read why this chapter took a while to get out there, read the rest of this author's note at the end of this chapter.

* * *

"_**For small creatures such as we the vastness is bearable only though love."- Carl Sagan**_

The pyramid was gone. Gideon, as promised, had taken photos of it with Reid the night after Reid met Aaron Hotchner and, so as not to prolong the torture, had hired a couple of college kids to come and "deconstruct" the pyramid and haul the debris away in their truck. Reid had stood on the porch during the entire demolition, thin arms wrapped around his belly as if hugging himself, a pouty look on his face.

"It was a great idea, buddy." Gideon said, as the last of the pyramid was carried off. "But I love you. I care about you too much to risk you getting hurt. I hope someday you understand where I am coming from."

"I do." Reid had said, sighing tiredly.

Later that day, on the 5th, the doorbell had rung right after lunch and a ruddy-faced middle aged man had been waiting on the doorstep. In front of him stood a rather nervous looking adolescent boy with shaggy hair, bangs obscuring the kid's blue eyes.

"Are you...are you Spencer's father?" The man said uncertainly when Gideon answered the door. Reid, Gideon knew, was watching from the living room, stiff and nervous as a rabbit smelling a predator.

"I...yes. I am Spencer's father." Gideon said after a moment. "You are?"

"My boy here..." the man had pushed the boy forward, none too gently. The kid staggered a bit, hands buried in his jeans pockets, still not making eye contact. "This brat of mine sold your boy some of my building materials. Cinderblocks, concrete..."

"Ah..."Gideon said carefully, trying to keep his voice calm, assessing the situation. The man seemed angry but Gideon wasn't sure what was developing, not yet.

"Tell the man your name..." The man barked loudly, and prodded the young teenager in the ribs. Gideon inwardly winced and hoped Reid, by some miracle, had decided to retreat to his room. He knew better. Knew Reid was watching and listening to every nanosecond of this uncomfortable exchange.

"I...I...my name is Daniel. Daniel..._sir_..." The kid's voice was warbling and he held out a thin, pale, calloused hand. Gideon took it and shook it gently. The kid had what looked like a bit of a shiner developing on his cheek.

"And tell the man why you're here!" The father barked angrily. The boy inhaled and Gideon stepped forward, hands raised in a placating manner.

"Look. My name is Jason Gideon... and you are?"

"Bob Crane." The man huffed, but he seemed to be calming down a bit. Just a little.

"And... so you are Danny? Rei..._Spencer_ told me about a lot you. Said you were quite enterprising." Gideon said softly, eyes on the boy but watching the father out of the corner of his eyes. The boy smiled, just the tiniest fraction, a soft, hesitant smile. Gideon inwardly sighed and charted his course of action.

"Enterprising my _ass_! The little fucker stole my shit, then sold it to a little kid... how old was the kid you sold it to? _Nine_?" Robert Crane was obviously angrier than he had first appeared.

"He said he was ten..." the boy trailed, looking sheepish.

"Ten? And you're twelve. And are playing with babies..." the man would degrade his son all day, Gideon knew, if that was a possibility.

"Look...Mr. Crane? I can reimburse you for the materials." Gideon said, trying to diffuse the situation. He couldn't be absolutely certain Robert Crane was responsible for his son's shiner but his gut was already churning.

Gideon knew that abused kids often sought out, without even consciously meaning to, other abused kids. Other abused kids validated their experiences, their lives. It would make sense that Reid would warm to a boy with a similar, albeit hopefully less severe, home life. It made a sick, heartbreaking sort of logic. A child with a similar upbringing would be less likely to scorn you, to think ill of you, to make you feel like an outlier, to reopen old wounds because together, you were normal. Together your experiences, while bad, became the new status quo.

"I can reimburse you for the materials." Gideon said again after a moment. The man seemed lost in his anger, drowning in it. He blinked, finally, as if waking up out of a dream.

"And then what does this piece of shit learn? Nothing! That is very kind of you, Mr. Gideon, but he has to _learn_..." Bob Crane's voice had gone up an octave, obviously irate at the idea of his boy not "learning" anything.

"Well...may I ask why you brought him here?" Gideon trailed. He wanted to keep the man talking, come to an agreement. Do something. Knew that he would have wanted to help this boy anyway, but with Reid watching the exchange it was vitally important Gideon play this just right and play it right the first time. He wouldn't get another chance, not to prove to Reid he could defuse this.

"He is here to apologize to your boy. He is here to apologize to you for associating with your son _and_-"

"Really? That is not necessary. Spencer is very bright and when his mind is made up, well... you know how boys can be."

"Well, at least one of them is bright. _Huh_?" The man smiled a cruel grin and smacked his kid on the back of the head none too gently. The boy, Daniel, seemed to shrivel even deeper into his baggy clothes, his cheeks blushing a miserable, humiliated scarlet. He nodded stiffly in agreement. Gideon found himself grinding his teeth. Could only imagine how Reid was interpreting this exchange. Did Reid think this was normal behaviour? Probably. Was the little boy watching from the hallway half-expecting his own foster father to devolve into the vicious, angry lout Gideon was now dealing with? The answer was, unfortunately, he probably did.

"He's going to be working it off, those supplies, the rest of his life, so he won't be around to_ play_. I thought it only fair he come and apologize to your boy, let him know how stupid he was and why your boy suddenly is out a friend." The man's voice was dripping acid. It was hard to hear and Gideon knew that Bob Crane was full of shit. This was not about apologies or taking responsibility or manning up or discipline. This was about publically humiliating his son for making a mistake, for making his father angry, and it was a milder version of the same crap William Reid had pulled over the years on Reid to humiliate and degrade him. Gideon had to fight to keep the anger and sudden contempt out of his voice.

"Look. Maybe we could come to some sort of deal, to reimburse you for your supplies? Daniel, here, could maybe do some chores around my place, weeding, mowing, painting? That way he is out of your hair and Spencer learns what's in store if he ever decides to take my stuff without asking. Instead of paying you, I write you a cheque right now to reimburse you for your stuff, then your boy...he works at my place until he works that cheque off." Gideon forced a brightly fake, brotherly smile onto his face. _Please take the deal._

The boy shifted uncomfortably but a little of his tension seemed to ease off. Just a smidgeon.

Bob Crane stared at the profiler for a long moment. His eyes narrowed like dried out raisins in his pudgy, doughy face. Finally he coughed and nodded, smiling a strange little smile.

"That might work. That shit wasn't cheap. You'll have slave labour till he joins the marines, though. He ain't worth much but he can work, if you..."

"God knows I could use a helping hand around here." Gideon said jovially, forcing himself to sound mildly enthusiastic. Robert Crane finally nodded. "The brat cost me 250 in supplies. 300 if you factor in time I had to take off to go pick up new stuff. That'll buy you 'im for at least a year of Sundays."

Gideon nodded. Smiled brightly.

"Would you and Daniel like to come in? I'll go get my cheque book and..."

"Not necessary. You can send the cheque home with him. I gotta be getting back. Wasted enough time on this foolishness..." Robert Crane, apparently, felt uneasy entering the profiler's home, or taking money directly.

Gideon shrugged, extended his hand again. The man looked at it suspiciously for a second like it might shift in front of his eyes and become not-a-hand and then finally shook, sealing the deal. Gideon knew the guy wanted the money, but also, on some level, wanted to control his son. By surrendering him to someone else, he was essentially losing time to emotionally beat the kid up. And on some level, that was a loss.

"I'm glad we could clear this up." Gideon said tonelessly, opening the door for the boy to enter. His father, however, was already half way down the driveway, walking quickly as if he, suddenly, could not get away fast enough. Gideon narrowed his eyes, watching the man, a million thoughts fluttering through his mind like startled crows lifting into the air, a hail of black wings and squawking madness and none of those thoughts were gentle. The profiler sighed tiredly. He could feel Reid behind him, watching from the hall, could feel the small genius burning holes in the back of his head.

"Would you like to come in, Daniel?" Gideon said, softening his tone for the youngster when the last of said youngster's father had disappeared out of sight. The twelve year old looked up and Gideon got the first good look of his face. A sad, pale face with large doe eyes, and a small, upturned nose. Bow lips, the bottom of which was swollen and bruised like a sausage. The dusting of a fading shiner around one pale blue eye, small clots of bright red blood dancing in the sclera. Yes. It made perfect, sickening sense why Reid had been drawn to this boy. Gideon smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring manner.

Despite his facial injuries, Daniel Crane was also a strikingly pretty boy and his movements, his mannerisms, were almost effeminate. He licked his lips nervously, body language relaxing into something Gideon couldn't quite define.

"My name is Jason. I am...Spencer's dad. _Spencer_? Why don't you come say Hi to Danny."

Instantly he heard his foster son scampering down the hall. Daniel entered the residence, ducking his head slightly, face drawn and wary but apparently not as wary now that Reid was in the picture.

"You're 12?" Spencer Reid said by way of introduction. Apparently the mini-crisis that had just enfolded on the front porch wasn't important enough in Reid's world view to earn a comment. "You told me you were 14!"

"I...I know. I am ahead in school..." The boy looked suddenly even more embarrassed. "I skipped two grades and I am tall, so I just..." The kid trailed again. Shrugged as if being ahead in school and tall explained lying about one's age.

"Well, I am only 9, but I turn 10 this Tuesday. But tomorrow, Saturday, is the party. Can you come? My Dad's friend David is coming, he is the guy I told you about, the one who works for the FBI catching serial killers and terrorists and..."

"I don't think my Dad will let me come." Daniel said sadly, voice low and uneasy and under that unease there was the first tang of anger.

"_My_ Dad can work that out. He is great at talking to people!" Reid assured, without even glancing up at Gideon. Gideon inwardly sighed, but smiled down at the twelve year old who had glanced up at him hopefully.

"I'll do my best." Gideon said and the boy smiled hesitantly, clearly wary of working up too much hope lest it be dashed.

"Um...so what would you like me to do or clean or..." Daniel asked Gideon, apparently remembering why he was there.

"Oh that! You don't have to do anything, Gideon just said that so your Dad wouldn't be mad and later you can just tell him you painted the upstairs hallway or something..." Reid declared speedily.

"_Actually_," Gideon interjected, throwing a warning look at Reid. "You guys can go out in the backyard and get the shovels and fill up that massive hole with soil. When you're done that, you can lay some new grass."

"Gideon!" Reid shouted, scandalized, even though Daniel was already nodding his head obediently.

"Reid, you made that hole, now you can fill it back in. I don't want a muddy swimming pool next time it rains."

"But..."

"No buts. You can show Daniel where the shovels are, okay?"

"But..." Reid piped back up, and it was at that moment Gideon realized how safe and comfortable Reid really felt having him as his foster father. Daniel was watching the exchange uneasily, as if he expected it to come to blows and Gideon was pretty sure that Reid himself had once watched his father with equal if not greater fear, jumping at every command and walking on eggshells. The fact that Reid felt safe enough to talk back and whine was a sign of just how far he had come in learning to trust. It made Gideon want to suddenly hug his foster son, even though Reid was pouting and whining and acting intentionally infantile. Gideon reigned in his emotions and stared down at the boys with a look that said he was losing his patience.

"When you're done filling it up, you can come back in and play Nintendo. Okay?" Gideon kept his voice stern, but inwardly he was smiling. He also knew Reid was showing off to his new, older friend. It was to be expected, but was still a little funny to watch Reid trying to be the alpha male in a group of two kids.

"Fine..." Reid sighed wearily and began to hobble his way down the hall. Gideon smiled and walked slowly towards the living room, listening to the boys' conversation.

"_Your dad lets you call him by his last name?"_

"_Yeah, cause he's an FBI agent most of the time and that is what his colleagues call him. We have a good relationship. He doesn't treat me like I am a kid or anything."_

"_Why does he call you Reid?"_

"_Uh...that's my last name. My mom's last name but she died and...it's complicated, okay? That's just what he calls me."_

"_Okay. He seems nice, your dad. But what hole are we supposed to fill in?"_

"_Where the pyramid was. Said it was dangerous. Silly huh? I even showed him our blueprints"_

"_Oh. He seems really nice."_

Gideon heard the back door open and then bang shut.

* * *

It took less than an hour for the hole to be filled in, despite Reid's initial protests, and when Gideon set foot onto the back porch he saw Reid sitting cross-legged on the cross, chattering about fire ants. Daniel had removed his t-shirt and was pounding the last of the mud into the hole.

"He didn't help you at all, did he?" Gideon asked sternly, walking over to expect the work.

Daniel looked at Reid before shrugging uncomfortably. That was all the answer Gideon needed.

"You're paying for him to work." Reid said, sounding a little sheepish. Gideon sighed. He would talk this over with Reid later.

"Well, it looks great. You guys can go in the house if you want. Danny, there is kool-aid and soda in the fridge, Reid will show you. You guys can help yourself."

"Um... what should I do now?" Daniel said quickly. Gideon glanced back down. The kid's cheeks were flushed, streaked with dirt.

"That's good enough. I figured you worked hard enough for one day." Gideon said gently.

"But...um...would you mind if I maybe stay and-"

"He wants to stay and hang out!" Reid interjected. Gideon nodded.

"That is no problem, Danny. You're welcome to stay."

"If...my Dad wants me here to...you know... he wants me working." The boy's voice hummed with anxiety. Gideon could almost hear the kid's heart beat in his voice, it was pounding that hard.

"If you hang with Reid, that's _work_ as far as I am concerned. Means I get some time to myself." Gideon said softly. It wasn't exactly a lie. The older boy nodded seriously.

"So...like... baby sit him, you mean?"

"Gideon!" Reid shrieked, obviously offended. Gideon glanced at his foster son, smiled gently. Nodded despite himself.

"Sort of. Except I will be here too and you guys are hanging out. Remember, help yourself to anything in the fridge. I am going upstairs to read." Gideon said, trying to sound relaxed. He knew Reid's new friend had what many people would call "a difficult home life". Just how far it went, Gideon didn't know. He'd have to talk to Reid.

As a profiler, Gideon knew the stats on child abuse. Over 3 million children were publically reported in the US to child protection agencies every year, but the actual numbers were much higher. Most abused children were never "helped". Approximately 50-60% of child fatality cases due to maltreatment were not labelled as such, but instead called "accidents". Nearly a full half of all child abuse victims were Caucasian. Mothers were more likely to physically abuse and kill their children than fathers, while fathers were more likely to sexually abuse and rape their children. A full third of females were sexually abused before the age of 18 and approximately 1 in 6 boys were victims of sexual abuse. When physical abuse, mental abuse and neglect were added to the picture, the number of children who were abused in some way at least once during their childhood was nauseatingly high. Add in other personal traumas like early death of parents, accidents, diseases, bullying and it was a wonder that anyone made it to adulthood even half sane.

It was one thing to intellectually know the stats and to know, on paper, how common violence was in all its forms. It was another thing altogether to foster a severely abused child displaying symptoms of Acute Stress Disorder and severe anxiety in general, and to meet his first real friend and see that said friend, by all outward appearances, was also a victim.

It made Gideon want to scream. No doubt Reid had chosen this kid, warmed up to him, because he had subconsciously profiled him and deemed him safe. Deemed him a fellow survivor on some level. That was part of it.

But not all of it. Child abuse was a freaking epidemic and the implications were terrifying. Gideon had never really wondered where evil came from. He wasn't a religious man. He understood sickness and pain and that it was often cyclical and inter-generational and became magnified. But sometimes, it was too much.

"Can we make more kool-aid if we run out?" Reid said, snapping his foster father out of his thoughts.

"What?"

"More kool-aid. If we run out. Can we make more?" Reid said again, as if Gideon was a little daft. Gideon smiled. Such a simple, easy request.

"Yeah. Sure. Just clean up if you spill."

Reid rolled his eyes. Of course he would clean up. He wasn't a baby.

Gideon leaned forward, gave his foster son a gentle kiss on the head and ruffled his hair. Reid squirmed in mock embarrassment and rolled his eyes.

"I am really glad to meet you Daniel. Reid really needs friends and I really need not to be forced to play Nintendo every day." Gideon said lightly. Daniel Crane smiled and nodded. Over the last hour and 15 minutes or so, a lot of his initial anxiety had dissipated. Not all of it, not by a long shot, but enough that the kid no longer looked like he was on the verge of a panic attack.

"Can we make pizza pops in the microwave?" Reid asked, apparently jealous of the 5 nanoseconds of attention Gideon had shown his friend. Gideon sighed and nodded.

"Yes. Pizza pops. Kool-aid. Popcorn. Pudding snacks. You guys have fun within reason. I'll be happy as long as I don't get stuck with a ton of dishes and you two don't get speedy high on coffee. And please put your garbage in the actual garbage. I am talking to you, Spencer Reid. Deal?"

Reid grinned. Daniel smiled shyly and nodded. Gideon retreated to his bedroom to record the latest events and news, and his suspicions about Reid's new friend. He planned to have an informal talk with Reid later, find out more about the young boy in his living room with the bruises and the darting, wild eyes. Now was not the time.

* * *

Daniel Crane didn't leave until 9:19 p.m. He and Reid spent the day playing Nintendo, squealing with delight. When Gideon came back downstairs at 5, the living room was littered with snack pack pudding cups, the plastic from pizza pops (they must've consumed 6 or 7 each) and at least half a dozen empty Pepsi cans. Daniel had immediately eyed the mess and rushed to clean it up.

"It's okay. I am just making coffee. It's only a mess if it stays that way." Gideon said, hoping the kid might relax and sit back down. The boy watched him uneasily until Reid pulled on his shirt and screeched that it was his turn at the Nintendo helm.

Gideon made some calls. Spoke to Rossi about Reid and the upcoming party and Aaron Hotchner and the Mesoamerican pyramid and the fall of that pyramid. Rossi listened, chuckling in all the appropriate places, thoughtful and brooding during the serious bits.

"You can make an anonymous child abuse call regarding the friend, but if they send somebody out and the boy covers for his father, the father might not let him spend any more time with you. It's tricky. On the one hand, if you have concerns you don't want to ignore them. On the other hand... a brusque father and mental abuse do not mean those bruises are a result of physical abuse. It sounds like it, and I'd bet money on it, but you need to know more. This isn't a toddler you are dealing with and older kids can and will cover for their abusers. On the one hand, even if they found nothing there would be a file open. On the other hand...I would speak to Reid first. See what he knows, and maybe offer his friend an ear. I don't envy your position."

"Thanks, David." Gideon said, sighing softly. "Could just be he fell of his skateboard or something. Reid told me the boy is clumsy. However..." Gideon trailed. Rossi finished the thought.

"Being a clumsy kid is the oldest child abuse excuse in the book."

"Right." Gideon said and sighed again.

"You said he removed his shirt doing chores. You see any bruises or anything on his chest, his back?"

"No. Nothing. But I didn't get a super good look, you know, and even if there was nothing, it doesn't mean there wasn't at some time. His lip is bruised and his eye is bloody. So something happened."

"Yes. But he also was selling off his father's cinder blocks and concrete and helping Reid construct a pyramid in the backyard, so that tells me this kid is, fearful behaviour aside, a little on the wild and inventive side. If you had seen me as a kid you would have assumed I was beaten daily. I was littered with bruises from tree climbing and building stuff. Some kids really are accident prone."

"Don't make me worry about you, now, David."

"Jason, really. Also, if his father was abusing him, why risk taking his stuff? Most of the battered kids I have spoken to or read about were afraid to take a piss without written permission." Rossi's voice was soft, introspective. He was used to profiling killers, not abused kids.

"Yes. But there are always the wild cards; the kids who decide, _fuck it, I am going to get beaten anyway, I might as well push the envelope_... I mean, if a kid has got nothing to lose, they've got nothing to lose by being bad..."

"Just keep your eyes and ears open. Like you always do." Rossi said. The conversation shifted into a talk about a sexual sadist in New Orleans, then back to Reid's new lawyer, Hotchner.

"I am glad Reid likes him." Rossi said when Gideon retold the story of how his foster son and the young attorney had met.

"Speaking of Hotch...and Daniel...well, his birthday is tomorrow. The party, anyway. The actual birthday isn't until next Tuesday, but Saturday is when Hotch can come, and Kevin. And I am sure Reid would love it if you would stop by."

"I wouldn't miss it for the world." Rossi said, and his smile was evident even over the phone. "What does he want?"

"Jesus, David, that boy has amassed more stuff in the 6 weeks or so he has been here than I had during my entire youth. He doesn't need anything else. Really."

"I'll get him something. Geniuses are surprisingly easy to shop for. They are interested in so damn much..."

"Party starts around 3. Or, as Reid calls it being cute, "noon". So I can tell him you're coming?"

"Yeah. And I'll check out the new friend when I am there, give you my read on him."

"Thanks."

Gideon disconnected. Wrote a few more lines in his journal and shut the book before wandering downstairs. The day had passed. It was time for Daniel to go home.

* * *

**That's it for this chapter**, and as promised, the return of the rambling A/N (stop reading now if you are bored): These author's notes are turning into a mini story of their own, Haha. Like always, review, my awesome loyal fans! I need to squeeze more life into every day (gulps down some black Irish hazelnut coffee- you guys have probably figured out I have a thing for coffee). I have been really energized by life lately. I have two quirky birds with psychological issues (both rescue birds, one has nocturnal panic attacks, the other plucks himself silly) and an elderly cat and care for 4 rats. I also recently got a worm factory to compost my organic scraps and a bunch of free red wiggler worms (Eisenia Fetida) for my factory and I am collectively calling them _the Borg_. If you read the last chapter (chapter 35), you probably read the little bit about de Nerval and his pet lobster Thibault. I was thinking about getting a lobster for over a year. You see, technically, I am not allowed any more pets (the worms aren't pets!) and I figured if I got a lobster, I could keep it around and just claim it is dinner if anyone asks. I do live a ten minute walk from the ocean... but I have a feeling my building manager won't believe me.

Review, review, review. Each review, I will write a page for. Or a thousand words. Yeah. Something like that. REVIEW!


	37. Chapter 37: Party Time

**Title:** Losing My Religion by Lexikal (Chapter Thirty Seven)  
**Rating:** M for graphic violence against a child and language (in the first chapter, chapter 8 and chapter 10 so far. Chapter 28 has Reid discussing specific acts of abuse but not at length.)  
**Fandom:** Criminal Minds  
**Summary:** Spencer Reid, 10, is removed from his father's "care" after being violently attacked and is fostered by his old mentor, Jason Gideon. This is a sequel to "That's me in the corner". Features child abuse, do not read if underage.

**Author's Note: **Maybe I can have this done by the end of this month. I hope... I like this story but I want to work on the others. Rest of the A/N at the end so as not to disrupt story flow.

* * *

"_**They fail, and they alone, who have not striven." –Thomas Bailey Aldrich**_

_He didn't know where he was, but at the same time, he was aware of being here before, of maybe never leaving here. The ground was cold, iced with hoarfrost and under the frost was pitch black mud, the color of the sky at night if the stars all burned out. But God would never let that happen. The frost covered ground was also full of cylindrical shapes, yawning and blinking in the twilight, under a sky that, Gideon knew, would never grow dark and never become any lighter. An eternal twilight. _

"_It is alright if you are in our garden, as you are not a crow!" A voice rasped at him, and that voice was neither good nor evil, welcoming or scary. It was as ancient as the Grand Canyon and sounded like leaves scattering on the street in a light wind. Gideon glanced up at the scarecrow. Nodded._

"_Who are you?" Gideon asked in a child's voice. It was until that moment that he realized he was a child. He had always been a child and had never grown up._

"_We are the hollow men," the first scare-crow said, sternly. "We are the stuffed men. Leaning together...headpiece filled with straw."_

"_I know that." Gideon said, and was amazed that he did. He knew that. He knew the rest of who they were too._

"_You are the shape without form, though." Another scarecrow said, and there was something mildly sinister about that comment. "You are shade without colour. You are the dream. We are dreaming you."_

_Gideon blinked and rubbed at his face. It felt rubbery and cold, not like skin at all, really._

"_This is death's other kingdom." Child-Gideon said suddenly, as if waking up to reality._

"_Yes, and you are welcome, because you are not a crow, and will not peck at us." That was a distant voice, another hollow man, apathetic and dreary of being picked by corvids._

"_Would you like a piece of fruit?" The sinister one asked then, trying to sound magnanimous. "We always have lots of fruit."_

"_It is strange fruit. It attracts the crows." The first scare-crow added; the ancient one. Gideon glanced up. He was in a garden but interspersed in the garden were trees. Out of the trees, instead of sap, ran blood. Hanging from the branches by old, tattered nooses were corpses, bloated and puffy and buzzing with the sound of flies. Other things hung from the trees. Individual arms and legs, eyes and ears, all dusky and cyanotic. Replacement parts. Strange fruit. And that was when Jason Gideon noticed that the lumps beneath his feet were not rocks or cabbages but human heads, sleeping under their layer of frost, yawning and blinking._

"_You woke up the heads," The sinister one said suddenly, jerking on its pole. Gideon hunched down on his haunches and peered at one of the heads. It was familiar and haunted, eyes ringed with dark shadows like a coon, lips cracked and when it spoke it asked why he hadn't saved it. _

"_I didn't want to die." The head said. It was the head of a child Gideon had never met, but had tried to save, a boy whose school photo had been tacked up on the BSU corkboard for over a month. The boy had died a horrible death and afterwards had been washed, dismembered, in a washing machine and dried with a dryer sheet. _

_His name was forever lost here, in this place, but that face and those eyes..._

"_I tried to save you. I really did." Child-dream-Gideon told the head earnestly, fingers hovering over its frost-kissed eyelashes._

"_I am so cold here. I am so cold in this cold, black ground. I will always be cold while you are warm. But I will always smell like a fresh spring day."_

"_I really did try to save you. We looked for you; we barely slept trying to find you. I am so, so sorry..." Dream-Gideon felt nauseated, and his heart was beating erratically. He knew viscerally that the organ was going to stop beating and he would soon join that sad, bodiless head in the ground._

"_I was so scared when he first put the knife in. Until then I thought I might live. But then I knew... I knew. And he wasn't fast, either. It is true, what they say. The brain keeps working even after the head is removed..." The head kept talking, but Gideon could no longer hear because he was crying. _

_Child-dream-Gideon was crying and couldn't stop crying. The head in the ground scowled at the tears and Gideon took another look and realized he recognized the other heads lined up in the ground like macabre cabbages. He knew each one. They were all staring at him with haunted, hateful eyes. Accusing eyes._

"_Don't feel badly." A voice like syrup was suddenly in the air, hanging and oppressive. Child-Gideon glanced up. A very thin man with eerily long legs (was he walking on stilts?) and arms walked towards him. The man's face was a halibut, ugly and gray with perpetually confused, globular eyes._

"_If it wasn't for your failures, then my ilk couldn't play..." The man with the fish-head stared at Gideon coldly, mouth moving unnaturally, gills fluttering in the eerie twilight._

"_I really did try to save you." Gideon told the face in the ground, turning from the disturbing stranger, but it was too late. The face was sleeping, or decaying... something had happened. There was a giggle and a clown stepped out of the copse of trees, eyes dancing manically. The fish-man was laughing. Death's other kingdom was laughing, and the laughter was not nice..._

"_Oh, you are so DEAD Crane!"_ Spencer's annoyed yelp startled Gideon awake. He blinked blurrily and stared at the bedside clock and swore. It was only 6:35 in the morning.

"Christ...does the boy wonder ever sleep?" Gideon asked the stucco ceiling and sat up, wiping at his eyes, his stubble. His mouth tasted like something in the order of _rodentia_ had crawled inside and taken a dirt nap. He'd shave later. Right now Reid was still being too-freaking-loud. More yelling. What sounded like a thud. An angry crash. Gideon blinked and oriented himself. He had just had one hell of a strange dream. He's been in a field or a garden or something, there had been a man whose head was that of a fish, and a talking bowling ball...or something...already the dream was dissolving, twisting out of shape like smoke and disappearing, leaving behind only the blue-gray smell of itself.

"_No! It is not your turn! You talked right when I was doing that hard level, you talked right at the hard part and distracted me and so you killed me so I get to play your turn!"_

Christ. Gideon got out of bed and shuffled downstairs. Today was Saturday, October 6th, 1990. Reid would be turning ten (the big one-oh!) on Tuesday, but today was his "birthday-party day". Gideon really did not want to start it off by yelling at the kid for breaking the local noise pollution by-law but from the sounds of it, this current tantrum was about some damned _Nintendo game_ and if this freak-out was over Nintendo...

Wait. Reid wouldn't be yelling about Nintendo unless he was playing against someone. As eccentric as the boy was, he had never yelled at himself for messing up a level. Which meant...

Christ. Daniel was over. Before 7 in the ay em.

Gideon paused, and thought for a moment. He'd have to be especially careful how he treated Reid now. Being disciplined in front of a friend- especially a new friend- was always tough for the kid getting the "talking to", but when the kid being disciplined had a history of severe emotional abuse and was easily humiliated and said new friend appeared to carry a similar burden, things became exponentially more complicated.

Gideon sighed and continued on down the stairs. As expected, Reid and Daniel were in the living room "playing" Mario brothers. Daniel was sitting cross-legged in front of the television, head straining back to look at Reid. Reid was standing on the couch, swinging his arms like some deranged ape who had just escaped the Pan Troglodyte Sanitarium. Daniel was arguing, too, Gideon saw, just not as loudly as Reid.

Then again, it would have been a real effort to argue as loudly as Spencer Reid. Reid had probably woken up every dog in the state.

"It's my turn because you died, Reid. Fair and square and that is that so suck it up, crutch-boy and..." Daniel Crane stopped speaking the second he saw Jason Gideon and seemed to turn translucent, like a light-switch being thrown. _This is the incredible abused-boy-lamp! He turns white at the drop of a hat! Powered by fear of adults! Yours for only the cost of your soul and years of sustained abuse which you provide! Buy now!_

"Good morning, Daniel. Reid. _Reid_; get down off the sofa, stop yelling and behave or the television goes off for the day." Gideon kept his voice as calm and level as he could. Reid needed boundaries. Without them, he seemed incapable of knowing what was socially appropriate.

"BUT IT IS MY TURN AND-"

"Reid, Daniel isn't yelling. Use your inside voice. No more yelling or the TV gets turned off." Again, this was said in the same patient, neutral tone of voice. Both of these kids needed calmness, needed boundaries. Needed an adult to be an adult and not a tyrant, no matter how early in the morning it was and no matter how much said adult needed caffeine.

"BUT TODAY IS MY BIRTHDAY PARTY DAY AND-"

"That's 1 strike. If I have to tell you three times, then no more TV, birthday-party day or not."

"BUT YOU WEREN'T HERE AND HE-"

"That is warning number 2. You can tell me whatever you want but use your indoor voice. Or go to your room and calm down. But I don't want the animal welfare people at my door."

That last comment seemed to totally confound Reid. He blinked. "What?"

"Your screaming. You have to be screaming so high that you rival most dog whistles, and when that noise is sustained-"

"No, I am not screaming that loudly!" Reid argued, instantly trapped in the game of let-me-tell-you-how-much-I-know-even-though-I-am-only-ten. "Do you even know how-"

"Nope, but thanks for sharing." Gideon said, yawning, stumbling towards the kitchen. He knew he was being a bit brusque, but damn it, he was tired. "And it's Daniel's turn! By the way, Daniel, does your father know you are over here?"

Gideon heard muffled voices. "Yes, he doesn't care!" Reid called back.

"Really? It's not even 7 in the morning yet, boys."

"I left him a note, Mr. Gideon..." Daniel called back. "I...Reid said it would be okay if I came over."

Gideon spooned coffee grounds into the filter, filled the pot with water, poured it into the machine. Turned the machine on and pulled the egg carton and bacon from the fridge.

"It's fine with me, Daniel. I just want your father to know where you are." Gideon kept his voice neutral. He was glad Daniel liked being over. The kid probably needed a haven. Gideon pulled the frying pan out of the drawer (it was a no-stick pan and Reid refused to eat anything cooked on it because apparently no-stick pans like his Teflon frying pan contained a chemical called perfluorooctanoic acid also-known-as PFOA also-known-as C-8 and apparently said chemical was toxic, toxic, toxic!) and turned the stove on. It was a gas stove and the sound of the gas bursting into blue flame was one Gideon had always associated with good food and home and had only started to associate with house fires and tragedy since Reid had moved in.

"Boys, I am making bacon and eggs and toast. Do you want any?" Gideon called. He was asking for Daniel's sake, not Reid's, but already knew Reid would be the first- and possibly only- boy to respond.

"Sure! I was just thinking about how I wanted to increase my risk of childhood cancer, but I forgot!" Reid called back sarcastically. Gideon rolled his eyes. Apparently the Nintendo crisis of 1990 had passed and would only live on in the history books.

"This coming from a boy who eats Trix- which, I might add, is not a food in any technical sense- like it's pot and he suddenly got a weekend to splurge in Amsterdam." Gideon's voice was light. Since Reid had come to stay he had changed a lot and learned a lot. He had learned how to deal with a child in the throes of a nightmare or a panic attack. He had learned how to hold a boy in a basket hold so he could thrash and scream and not hurt himself or the walls when his anger got to a point where he couldn't control it. He had learned how to slow down and play with Lego and how to find college-aged kids willing to dismantle a fairly large "model" pyramid made of concrete and yet more concrete which had cropped up mysteriously in the backyard. He had also learned how to laugh and find the good in small successes, and how to be sarcastic with Reid because on his good days, the days he wasn't overwhelmed with fear and guilt and trauma, Reid was a sarcastic little smart-ass.

There was a moment of silence. Hushed speaking. Giggling. Gideon smiled despite himself. Maybe it was the smell of the coffee and the rumbling as the machine percolated, but he was easing into the day and no longer felt like engaging in impulsive filicide.

"Daniel, would you like some bacon, eggs and toast?" Gideon called. Lord help him if Reid decided to answer.

Another moment. More hushed back-and-talk voices.

"God knows why, but he wants to eat some unfertilized chicken ova and decaying pig flesh with you!" Reid called back. Gideon rolled his eyes heavenward.

"Okay. Thank you, Reid. I am sure Daniel is capable of speech."

"He really isn't!" Reid called back instantly. "He has mutism and can only talk if I tell him he can talk." Reid's voice was giddy and happy, the voice of a child playing a stupid but normal game of control. Gideon smiled and scrubbed at his eyes

"Okay. How many unfertilized chicken ova and strips of decaying pig flesh would Daniel like, Reid?"

More hushed whispering. Small giggles.

"He says he would like 2 ova and 4 strips of flesh. And 2 pieces of texas toast with butter, thank you very much."

"He is welcome. How would he like his ova chemically changed in the evil Teflon frying pan?"

More whispering. Gideon heard Daniel say _what?_ and Reid's response of_ he wants to know how to cook 'em_ and then more giggling.

"He says sunny-side up! And he asked if you would cut the toast into strips so he can dip them in the yolk? He says that if you cut the toast into strips it's called _soldiers and foxholes_ and..."

There was the sound of scuffling and Daniel called back "You don't have to cut my toast for me, Mr. Gideon, I never said that, Reid is lying!" and then more scuffling. A loud yelp. Laughter. What sounded like amateur wrestling in the living room.

"Sunny-side up it is, then, Daniel." Gideon yelled back. The day was in full swing. So far, so good.

* * *

"I don't know how you two can eat that junk!" Reid said and took a big slurp of his Trix. Because it was his "birthday-party" day he had finagled Gideon's permission to add 4 heaping tablespoons of brown sugar to his already too-sweet cereal. The sugar stuck up out of the bowl like a dangerous little mountain. Reid had some rubber dinosaurs at the table and was walking them around, dipping their faces into the soggy cereal, making idiotic sound effects.

"Reid, stop being a baby and playing with your food. Sit up in your chair." Gideon chided gently. In response, Spencer Reid made an ear-splitting pterosaur screech. Smiled widely.

"Yeah, see, you keep that up and I am going to buy you a high chair, because you're obviously not ten. You are obviously a baby and babies sit in high chairs."

This time there was a roar. It was probably supposed to be a T-Rex or something similar. Sounded more like a strangled cat.

"Seriously, do you know what eggs are, Daniel? Or pork meat is? Do you know that people who eat pig's-head soup have a greater than average chance of a heart attack because they chemically ingest all the terror that was in that pig's body when it was murdered? It's true. Trust me on that."

Daniel Crane looked over at Gideon, as if looking for an answer. Gideon sighed. Shrugged. He didn't want to get into this.

"But I am not eating pig's head soup I am eating-"

"Doesn't matter!" Reid snapped, not waiting for his friend to finish. Gideon sighed. Yup. They really needed to work on the social skills and the waiting to take your turn thing.

"You're eating a murdered pig's body full of fear and terror and also added chemicals like nitrites. It's very bad for your health!"

Daniel reached across the table and quickly snatched up Reid's box of Trix. Began to read the ingredients. "Corn, sugar, corn syrup, canola oil, modified corn starch, corn starch...salt, guar gum, gum arabic, high fructose corn syrup, calcium carbonate, dicalcium phosphate, trisodium phosphate, red 40, yellow 6, blue 1 and other colours added, baking soda, sodium citrate, natural and artificial flavour. Yeah, you're a real paragon of dietary knowledge." Daniel said cheekily, a grin on his lips.

"Just because I know I eat it, doesn't mean I don't know what's in it." Reid remarked, and took another slurp. Gideon smiled. Shook his head. _A swing...and a miss._ Reid would never concede defeat. Not over his breakfast cereal choices, thank you very much.

"Hey, Daniel? You ever wondered if we could make a human ovum really big- like chicken sized big- artificially and then harvest it from a woman and then cook it like a chicken ovum on the stove, do you ever wonder what that might taste like? Like, would it be all yolky and good for egg nog, do you think?" Reid's voice was dangerously sweet but he had his best I'm-going-to-gross-you-out-and-you-can't-stop-me face well in place.

Gideon shot his foster son a warning look.

"Not at the breakfast table, please. That's not appropriate." Gideon kept his voice very neutral. Took a calculated sip of coffee. Waited for Reid's move.

"Fine. But...hey? Hey Danny? _Danny_?" Reid was still grinning devilishly. He wasn't done yet.

"What?" The 12 year old swallowed and looked back at his friend, the ghost of a smile on his lips. All three of them knew Reid was going to be inappropriate. It was obvious. They also knew Gideon would have to step in as the responsible adult and put boundaries in place. It was a dance, Gideon knew, and an essential one, but the profiler just hoped Reid wouldn't be too descriptive. He was rather enjoying his breakfast. The bacon at least.

"Did you know that human flesh apparently tastes like pork and that's why-"

"Reid, I don't care if it's your birthday-party day, you are still a kid and I am still your dad and I can and will send you to your room. You are smart enough to know that that isn't breakfast table talk. That's the last time I am going to tell you."

"No. You just told me not to talk about science at the dinner table."

_God help them both._

"It's the same table, Reid." Gideon said flatly. "No science where we eat. No hypothetical science. No science fiction. No biology. No pathology. If it wouldn't sell food on a commercial I don't want to hear it at this table." Gideon knew if he didn't cover every angle, Reid would find a loop-hole.

"Fiiiiiiiiine." Reid said, drawing out the word to display his contempt of being intellectually stifled. "But hey? Hey Gideon? Hey?"

Gideon ignored him and flipped the page of his paper. Hmm. Some of his stocks were up. Cool.

"Hey Gideon?" Reid persisted, leaning across the table to tug on his foster father's sleeve. Gideon carefully put the paper down.

"Am I going to like what you're going to say, or am I going to have to tell you to leave the table?" Gideon said simply, staring at the hyper little boy in front of him. Reid shut his mouth. Scratched the side of his head thoughtfully. Gideon could see the cranks and wheels and pistons all working in that little genius brain.

"Maybe...maybe I will tell you later. Okay?"

"Good boy." Gideon said simply and picked his paper back up again. He knew what this was. They had moved from Reid's early anxiety and panic and shock phase into his testing boundaries so he would know he wouldn't be rejected phase. It was kind of funny, actually, half of what the kid said.

* * *

"HOTCH!" Reid squealed with delight as the young attorney stepped into the living room. Kevin and Rossi had already arrived and were sitting on the living room sofa, battling it out on the Nintendo. A small little pyramid of gifts wrapped in various little-boy-themed wrapping papers had formed on the coffee table. Daniel was lazing on the couch with a can of pepsi-cola, looking about as relaxed as Gideon had seen him in the less-than-24-hours he had known him. The twelve year old had stepped out for about an hour at noon and returned with a plastic bag full of oddly shaped packages wrapped in newspaper and an envelope with the single word "Reid" scrawled on the front in childish cursive.

Hotch smiled that restrained, calm smile of his and nodded. "Reid. Happy birthday." The young man glanced over at Gideon, who had just let him in and offered two small wrapped packages.

"You can put them on the table." Gideon said simply, mouthing a thank you. Hotch nodded and added his two small items to the collection.

"Well, it's 3- what about we start the party?" Gideon said loudly, looking at Reid. Reid was hopping up and down with excitement. Literally.

"In 5 minutes, Jason..." David Rossi whined, pausing his game. "I am winning, here."

"No, NOW!" Reid yelled almost manically, and jumped onto the sofa, face etched with a comically large grin. The kid was being a brat. And he knew it. And he was revelling in it. Because it was his day. His birthday-party day. But it was more than that. He was happy to be celebrated, his existence, his day, but he was happy to be wanted. To be part of a family. And to know he could be a brat and act up and misbehave without having to worry that he would be hurt.

Gideon was certain that was a huge part of Reid's mildly irritating behaviour. And if the kid felt he needed to be a pain in the ass for a bit in order to feel safe and know he was loved, well... that was a need Jason Gideon was more than welcome to help satisfy. Within reason.

"Reid, please do not scream at your guests. David, please turn off the Nintendo." Gideon said mildly, using the same tone on his colleague as he had used on his almost-ten-year-old foster son. Rossi grinned and leaned over. Turned the television off. Gideon's colleague had one strawberry-flavoured fruit-roll up wrapped around his right pointer finger and was sucking on it. Reid had handed everyone a complimentary fruit roll-up when they arrived and now he handed a silver tube to Aaron Hotchner and said "They're good!"

Hotch took the candy and stared at it. Put it in his trench-coat pocket and then slipped out of said trench-coat. Gideon took the coat and placed it on the pile in the hall.

"No! You are supposed to eat it _now_!" Reid snapped at Hotch, racing back to the hall to get the fruit roll-up. He returned five seconds later with the candy and held it out to Hotch again. Gideon sighed.

"_Reid_. We do not go through other people's pockets, do we? That's very rude."

Gideon waited for the kid to yell or argue or run to his room or declare that this was his birthday-party day and therefore, all acts of rudeness were excused. Instead Reid looked sheepish and whacked himself on the head lightly, theatrically.

"I'm sorry, I'll go put it back!" Reid said giddily and off he scurried again, presumably to put it back in the same coat pocket he'd just "rudely" snatched it from.

Gideon glanced over at the young attorney; Aaron Hotchner was smiling, obviously amused. Gideon decided to let it go and not tell Reid that putting something back in a pocket was almost as bad as removing it in the first place. Reid was at least trying.

"He's very excited. Testing boundaries." Gideon said softly, before Reid had returned. Hotch nodded understandingly. He got it.

Reid returned a moment later, and he held a fruit roll-up in his hand. "I got you another one. I put that other one back and got you this new one. So you can eat it _now_."

Hotch took the candy and looked at it, as if he were studying some lost scroll. Finally chuckled softly at his client's innocent tenacity. A less brooding man would have laughed out loud. Reid watched him eagerly, and when the lawyer didn't immediately tear open the foil, Reid tried to help him. Finally the candy had been freed and Reid held it out.

"Eat it, you'll _like _it." Something about the way Reid was encouraging his attorney to eat the fruit roll-up reminded Gideon of that famous scene in _E.T.: The Extra Terrestrial_, when Elliot is trying to show new things to the alien. Oh boy.

Hotch took a bite, chewed. Swallowed. "Yes. It's good." He told Reid solemnly. Reid grinned wildly.

"I KNEW YOU WOULD JUST LOVE IT!" Reid screeched. Rossi looked over at Gideon and grinned widely.

"Yes, inside voice, Reid. Okay?"

It was going to be a long day.

"Okay, so first, I was thinking we could do the scavenger hunt. We have a dinosaur theme, here, people. There are six of us so we will work in teams of two. The first team to get everything on the list will get a prize." Gideon waited a beat. Everyone was nodding. Reid was squirming with excitement.

"I WANT TO BE ON HOTCH'S TEAM!" Reid screamed loudly, jumping up and down. Gideon stared over at the younger man, who looked a little overwhelmed by all of the boy's giddy shouting and covered his smile with his hand. That was just too funny.

"What about me? I thought you liked me?" Rossi said sulkily. "You didn't have to tell me to eat this thing twice..." Rossi motioned the fruit roll-up still wrapped around his finger with a nod of the head.

_God, Rossi, don't encourage him, please..._

"BUT HE IS MY LAWYER! LAWYER-CLIENT CONFIDENTIALITY IS NOW IN EFFECT SO HE HAS TO BE WITH ME ALL DAY LONG!"

"I think Reid has a point. I have to stay with him all day. It's a law that when a lawyer and a client are in close proximity, any and all transactions will be discussed with the client first. Since I assume this scavenger hunt is legally binding, I have to work with my client. To do otherwise would be a conflict of attorney-client interest." Hotch said this seriously, not an ounce of sarcasm in his voice. Reid stared at his attorney, blinked, obviously a little befuddled. Finally nodded.

They started to break up into teams then. Rossi, smartly, asked Daniel if he would like to team up with him and Danny said yes. That had been the plan anyway, so Rossi could analyze the kid and report back his findings. That meant Kevin was stuck with Gideon. They descended to the backyard with sheets of paper and a list of "items" to be found in or around the backyard.

Now that attorney-client privilege was in effect, Reid's voice had fallen to a whisper. Ironic, really, as they were now outside.

* * *

The living room table had a plastic Ninja Turtles table cloth on it. There were Ninja Turtles cups and plates and napkins and an ice cream cake with the Ninja Turtles on it from Dairy Queen with the candles already stuck in the top, waiting in the freezer. Plastic bowls of cheetohs and pretzels and tubes of Pringles were on the table, and a tray of brownies. 8 liters of soda pop: Pepsi, Dr. Pepper, Mountain Dew and finally Fresca for the old farts who didn't want the caffeine or the calories. Gideon had made 4 goodie bags (one for Hotch, Rossi, Daniel and Kevin) and filled them with dollar store crap Reid had helped him chose a week earlier in some magical wrinkle in time where "free time" had impossibly existed. Gideon and Kevin decorated and hung up streamers and blew up balloons while Reid, Hotch, Daniel and Rossi hunted around in the backyard for "Sunlight" to add to the list.

Finally Gideon decided they had decorated enough. He could also hear Reid yelling in the backyard that there was _no way to capture sunlight for christ's sake and bring it inside in a freaking basket_ and that was that.

Gideon walked through the house, opened the back door. Hotch looked a little harried, despite all his professionalism.

"Okay, guys, you have been out here an hour."

"NOT YET! WE AREN'T DONE!" Reid squealed.

"I was thinking maybe we eat cake and open presents?" Gideon coaxed, smiling. Maybe Reid would drop the hunt. Maybe not.

"We're not finished either!" Rossi piped up. Danny was smiling at him. Apparently Reid's friend liked the one on one attention.

"How about whichever team has the most things from the list, wins?"

There was a moment of silence. Reid looked...unsure. He only wanted to say yes if he and Hotch had the "most things", obviously. He couldn't very well say that, though. Gideon sighed.

"Okay, 15 more minutes, tops. Then cake and presents."

Rossi and Daniel nodded good-naturedly. Rossi leaned over and whispered something to Daniel and Daniel smirked and nodded back. Hotch looked...tired. Reid still looked unsure. He would agree to 15 more minutes if he could be guaranteed to win in 15 more minutes.

"Yeah, but..."

"Even hunts have time limits, Reid. And if I hear you yelling from inside, the hunt is over. Hotch might be your attorney, but I am sure he doesn't need a migraine headache."

Aaron Hotchner looked so relieved and thankful at those words that the profiler had to bite the inside of his cheek, hard, so as not to laugh.

"15 minutes from when you said that, or 15 minutes from when you go back in the house?" Reid piped back up. Gideon sighed again. Rolled his eyes and held up his hands to indicate ten, then held up another hand. Five. He went back in the house, letting the screen door slam.

* * *

"Thank you Rossi!" Reid squealed. He had just ripped the paper off David Rossi's gift. A pair of walkie talkies. Good ones, not the cheap kids' stuff. Reid was beaming.

"At first I thought you and Jason could use 'em, but now maybe you want to give one to Danny? So you guys can spy and talk and stuff?"

Even Daniel grinned at that. Reid nodded. They had eaten cake and Reid still had ice cream smeared on his face. The table looked like a bunch of pigs, not humans, had been there. They were all wearing birthday hats, even Hotch, all that Reid had had to conjole him to put his own. Reid's hat was special, not a simple paper cone with an elastic band like the others, but a plastic crown from the dollar store. "Birthday Boy" had been molded into the front of the plastic and a battery in the thing made the "jewels" in the crown light up in a way that was definitely seizure-provoking. The hat had cost 4 dollars and 99 lousy cents and was worth every penny. Reid looked so proud to have that piece of plastic on his head.

"Hey, Danny...here, take one...we'll put batteries in them later and-"

"Reid, buddy, hold them up! Come on!" Gideon cajoled, and angled his camera to take a shot of Reid with the walkie talkies. He had a few dozen shots of them eating, Reid blowing out the candles on the cake, Reid making the first cut of his cake and now, opening his presents. Gideon had also snapped a few polaroids for Reid's scrapbook. Reid currently obeyed and held the box of walkie talkies high, grinning from ear to ear goofily.

Gideon snapped the picture and Reid looked around the table, like a little dictator.

"Who wants to give me their present next?" Reid said earnestly. Gideon fought back a grin.

"Here, open mine!" Daniel proclaimed, digging the gifts wrapped in newspaper out of the pile. Reid nodded. "Oh, the card comes first!" Daniel said excitedly.

Reid tore the envelope open and held the card up. It was a leaf rubbing that had been cut and glued on green construction paper. Inside, in gold letters were the words "Happy Birthday Spencer. I am glad you are my new friend. I hope you had a good first decade. From your new friend, Danny".

Reid read the card aloud and held it over for Gideon to admire. Gideon hadn't thought it was possible, but Spencer Reid's grin was even wider. His face was going to split if he didn't stop smiling soon.

"That is very nice of you, Danny." Gideon said honestly, shooting the older boy an approving smile. Daniel looked at his plate of half-melted ice-cream cake and blushed, embarrassed.

"Do you see, Gideon? He remembered I am into botany! And that my favourite color is green! Did you see?"

"I saw." Gideon confirmed, still smiling.

"I thought his favourite colour was blue..." Rossi mumbled and Gideon threw his colleague a dangerous look. David Rossi grinned, obviously delighted.

"Here, take a photo of me with this card!" Reid commanded and held the card up to his face. Gideon smiled and snapped a shot. Then Reid wanted a picture of the card with the Polaroid, and an extra one for Daniel...

"Reid, there are still more presents, pal."

Reid turned back to Daniel's presents and ripped the newspaper off them. There was a MAD magazine. Brand new. The current edition. A Cracked magazine, brand new, also current edition. An "Isaac Asimov's Science Fiction" digest and an "Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery" monthly digest. Both of these were brand new and current, as well. But that wasn't all: there was also a brand new X-Men comic and the latest copy of Scientific American. And after all that, there was a huge, jumbo sized bag of gummy worms, price tag still attached, a pez dispenser (it was Shredder from the Ninja Turtles)...and lo and behold, the price tag was still attached to that, too.

Reid looked down at all his gifts and then squealed in delight. He spread them out and made Gideon take photos of his new comic and magazine collection and his candy.

"That was quite generous of you, Daniel." Gideon said in a neutral tone of voice. The twelve year old shifted uncomfortably. "You know...he likes to read." Daniel mumbled and stared at his plate of ice cream.

Gideon and Rossi exchanged a look; partially concerned, partially amused. Gideon had no doubt that, aside from the hand-made card, every item Daniel had given Reid for his birthday had been shoplifted. No doubt Gideon would find out the truth eventually. Boys liked to brag about their shoplifting skills (Gideon remembered that all too well from his own early adolescence) and Daniel himself would probably admit the truth to Reid, and Reid, impressed, would tell Gideon.

"Um...that's all I got him..." Daniel said. Reid was still ogling his stuff excitedly.

"What's X-men? They any good?"

Daniel nodded quickly. Reid beamed. It was all well and good for adults to buy him things they thought he would like and should have, and for he, himself, to select toys and games but Reid had grown up so isolated that to have another kid give him stuff other kids were intoobviously meant a lot to Reid. It made him feel accepted. Normal, even.

"Okay, well...here is mine, little dude." Kevin said, breaking the silence. Reid was lost in his own little world. He'd opened the X-men comic and was flipping through it quickly, apparently done with socializing for now. Reid looked up and smiled. His eyes looked slightly glassy and his cheeks were flushed. No doubt he'd run around for a few more hours and then crash from all the sugar and excitement.

"Oh, yeah. Thanks!" Reid exclaimed. Gideon commented on the nice dinosaur paper but that didn't last long. Reid ripped the paper off and stared at the colourful box.

"It's this game. It's called Tangram. You get different cards, and you have to try and use the pieces in there to match the pictures in the cards..."

"COOL!" Reid shrieked. Gideon didn't know about Reid, but he was getting tired. Reid asked if he could play the game right then, and Gideon informed him that later might be best. Next came Hotch's gifts. Reid thanked Hotch again and then tore off the paper once again. The first was a book. Reid read the title out loud and the mood in the room instantly changed.

"_People of the Lie: The Hope for Healing Human Evil by M. Scott Peck, M.D_..." Reid trailed off, flipped the book over, quickly scanned the back of the book.

"I know it's not a kids' book, but I thought it might interest you. I found it interesting, myself."

"Thank you." Reid said softly, and held up the book for Gideon to take a photo, but his manic, goofy grin was gone. In its place was a thoughtful, almost pensive smile.

The second gift was a journal with a lock and a key. Gold leafed pages, real leather covers. Reid's initials had been stamped in the leather, little identations; capital S, capital R.

"Wow! Thank you, again. Look, Gideon. My own diary...it even has my initials engraved in the cover. I bet this was really expensive, huh?"

That got a chuckle out of the young lawyer.

"When I read the book, it really made me question things. The nature of evil, of goodness, everything. I thought you might like somewhere to write down any philosophical questions or theories you have when you read that."

"Yeah...thank you!" Reid, obviously, wasn't sure what to say. Gideon knew the boy had a platonic "crush" on Aaron Hotchner, the way little boys sometimes idolized super heroes or baseball stars. Hotch was cool, he was reserved, he was intelligent and he exuded a preternatural confidence which Reid, obviously, found emotionally alluring. And he obviously wanted Hotch to think highly of him, as well, which was why, Gideon suspected, the kid was so ga-ga over the thoughtful and mature gifts Hotch had bestowed upon him.

The gifts meant Hotch didn't see Reid as just a kid. They were thoughtful gifts. They were the gifts an intelligent adult might give another intelligent adult, not the gifts a new lawyer would give a ten year old he'd just met, and that was probably why Reid's expression had changed to something approaching awe.

"Thank you..." Reid said again, and Hotch chuckled. Told the boy he was welcome.

Gideon watched his foster son, and smiled. Took photos with Hotch's gifts. After the photos, unexpectedly, Reid got out of his chair and ran around the table to where Aaron Hotchner was sitting, watching the child prudently.

"Thank you very much!" Reid said for what had to be the fourth time and flung his arms around the young man in what amounted to a tackle-hug. Hotch grabbed the table to keep from tumbling backwards, righted his chair, and returned the hug.

"You're welcome, kiddo." The young man said tenderly, clearly surprised by Reid's reaction.

"And, your gift from me... it's out in the driveway." Gideon said then, butting in. Reid was hanging off Hotch like a happy little baby koala bear and as tactful as Aaron Hotchner was, Gideon knew the man was also not as outwardly affectionate as Reid and that being used as a make-shift jungle gym was probably not his idea of a stellar Saturday.

"You got me something too?" Reid said, clearly surprised. Gideon blinked.

"Of course. It's your birthday!" Gideon said happily.

"Oh! THANK YOU GIDEON!" Hotch was momentarily abandoned as Reid ran over to his foster father and crawled into his lap, hugging him tightly around the neck. The kid was obviously emotionally overwhelmed. Gideon couldn't remember him ever being this hyper or physically affectionate before.

"Okay, that's nice. Thank you for the hug, but you are choking me budddyyy..."

Reid instantly let go, a look of alarm on his face. Gideon rubbed his neck dramatically. Across the table, David Rossi snickered.

"Why don't you go check out your present. You can take Danny if you like?"

Reid exchanged glances with Danny and then they were up and running for the front door.

Gideon mentally counted. One. Two. Three. Fou-

And then it came. Screams. Happy, happy screams.

"A BIKE! I GOT A BIKE! HEY! DANNY LOOK, A BIKE! HEY LADY ACROSS THE STREET? DID YOU SEE THIS? THIS HERE? THIS IS MY NEW BMX, ISN'T IT COOL?"

The four men at the table heard every word perfectly, and all four of them were smiling.

"Quite an emotionally well-balanced kid you're raising there, Jason." Rossi said facetiously, grinning wider. Gideon grabbed a cheese-ball from one of the plastic bowls that hadn't been overturned and tossed it at David Rossi's head.

* * *

**That's this chapter.** INTPs are chatterers, when we're interested in something. This chapter might suck because I have major brain fog right now. Long story with the brain fog. I need to switch from my coenzyme co-q-10 gummies to the ubiquinol form and still need a bunch of other supplements to get my brain back online (my brain is my on-going experiment, or rather, healing it, I am working on changing it chemically with supplementation and herbs). I have auto-immune problems, so sometimes I will literally sleep 16 hours and wake up and feel like I just smoked a blunt. But I do have neuro issues, and it's a real pain so sometimes my writing reflects that.

So yeah, very spacey, so I hope this chapter turns out half decently. I just watched tonight's (it is now Wed, January 18th, 2012) episode of Criminal Minds (the copy-cat zodiac killer episode "True Genius") and Reid mentioned he had already turned 30 but the implication was his birthday wasn't long ago so he was obviously born early 1982 (in reality Matthew Gray Gubler was born in 1980 so I must've mixed up the dates of birth of the actor and the character, thus making Reid older in this fic than he would be on the show). Please either a) pretend it is 1992 and not 1990 or b) accept the mistake and realize I have self-diagnosed (*grin*) dyscalculia and would've messed up the birth date anyway. Even if I had looked it up.

Right now, besides this fiction and daily unavoidable duties, I am really interested in growing my own mealworms (darkling beetle larva, tenebrio molitor) to freeze, dry and then cook with. Insect recipes are my new hobby. I got my worm factory for vermicomposting last week and a wonderful clump of red wiggler worms. And I am making some clay dishes that look like cross-sections of plant and animal cells, etc... so, in other words, I forget about this story sometimes.

Oh yeah, the dream Gideon has at the beginning of this chapter is based on a repeating dream I had as a kid, which I then wrote a story about and painted. Those that like to dissect dreams might like dissecting this one (I will provide my own brief analysis in the next chapter's end of chapter a/n) but I started having these dreams when I first got into criminology at about 8 (I started writing to criminals on death row in multiple states as a young teen which is an interesting experience). Some parts of the dream were obviously changed to fit fictional Gideon's life, of course. Sorry, anyway, for not updating more regularly, or rather, being erratic in my updates. When I get reviews, I remember to write. If something external doesn't make me remember to do something, I usually don't do it because I am doing something else. It's a very non-linear, zen world I live in. Also, the word "filicide" refers to the killing of one's child, but not necessarily biological child (infanticide is the killing of an infant aged 12 months or less, but almost usually a newborn infant, so even though Reid would be considered an "infant" in the legal sense because he is under the age of majority, the term infanticide would not apply here).

The killing of one's own offspring (biological child) has its own name:_ Prolicide_. So, yeah...happy thoughts, people. Review. Please!

Oh yeah, we're looking more at 50 chapters for this than 40. Like I said before, it's hard to predict these things. Sheesh. I always underestimate how long things take to do... and I am not really going to edit this chapter because I want to post it. Any glaring typos or mistakes, please ignore. If I re-read it to fix it, I might fix some typos but more than likely I will also delete and rewrite huge sections of it, and this story will never, ever, ever, ever, _ever_ meet its maker.


	38. Chapter 38: BSU visit

**Title:** Losing My Religion by Lexikal (Chapter Thirty Eight)  
**Rating:** M for graphic violence against a child and language (in the first chapter, chapter 8 and chapter 10 so far. Chapter 28 has Reid discussing specific acts of abuse but not at length.)  
**Fandom:** Criminal Minds  
**Summary:** Spencer Reid, 10, is removed from his father's "care" after being violently attacked and is fostered by his old mentor, Jason Gideon. This is a sequel to "That's me in the corner". Features child abuse, do not read if underage.

**Author's Note: **Was hoping to get a chapter out earlier than this (today is Jan 26th) but life and other things keep getting in the way. Updated- back at this Sat, Feb 4th. Got a bug. Gotta keep at the writing game or I will never finish this beast off.

* * *

"_**Fear is the father of courage and the mother of safety." ~Henry H. Tweedy**_

Wednesday, October 31sth, 1990; Halloween...

In the 25 days since his "birthday party" day Reid had figured out how to use his bike and no longer even needed the training wheels, which was pretty good considering the kid had never been on a bike before and had been pretty nervous about falling. He still had a bit of a limp sometimes, but he never complained to Gideon about pain, although the profiler was almost certain Reid had his share of pain as he had caught the boy wincing on more than one occasion. Gideon hadn't pressed any issues regarding Daniel or Daniel's home life and Reid, if he knew, never said if the gifts were shoplifted or not. Daniel was over pretty much constantly when not in school and though the boy was skittish overall, his facial bruises faded away and, so far, hadn't "returned".

Reid met with Hotch a few times a week, simply to get used to the man. Hotch had discussed the direction the case was going with Gideon. William Reid wanted to take it to court, but was opting not to represent himself. Hotch's theory was that Reid senior, vile as he was, didn't want to make himself look like he was "bullying" his own son in a court of law, especially considering the magnitude of the charges.

"He still will be there, though, and he will be directing his lawyer on what to say." Reid had told Hotch solemnly, looking over at Gideon with wide, scared eyes when he heard the news a few days after his big 1-0.

"He will still be there, and he knows I will choke."

"If this does go to trial, you look at me. Or you look at Gideon. You don't have to look at him."

Reid had nodded solemnly, but for the rest of that day he was morose and pensive; his comments tenuous and fissiparous, as if he were unable to decide on what words or even what thoughts he wished to speak aloud. He'd start speaking only to have his sentence fizzle out a few words in like a cherry bomb with a lame fuse. After that day, Reid had begun to drop more and more verbal cues about his growing fear of the upcoming trial and returning to his parent's "care". His day to day babble would be charged with the odd comment of: "If I am still here then..." or "but I probably won't be here then so it doesn't matter." When he voiced those fears, Gideon attempted to soothe him by confirming that he was wanted, that he had a good lawyer on his side ("You think Hotch is going to let you down, Reid? I can guarantee he won't"), that he was bright and articulate and that juries weren't stupid, but the future was still uncertain and that uncertainty was draining the joyous exuberance that characterized Spencer Reid out of the boy like a vampire sucking its meal out of a blood bank bag. Uncertainty was a vampire, and it was draining. The kid seemed to relax, sometimes, around Daniel, playing and joking and goofing off, but invariably a comment or a reminder or a date on the calendar or a television newscast would jolt Reid out of his good mood and he would return to being sullen and morose.

Today, however, was Halloween, a day that Reid had been looking forward to for weeks. He had his FBI agent "costume" of course, thanks to one David Rossi, but on the same day Reid and Hotch had discussed testifying in open court, Daniel had run over after school with a striped t-shirt and plastic claws and an ugly rubber mask that looked like the visage of a burn victim with tobacco stained teeth.

"What is that?" Reid had asked, looking his friend up and down.

"I'm going as Freddy!" Daniel had chirped happily. "I got all this for 5 bucks down at the dollar store... except for the sweater and the hat. The hat is my dad's but he won't miss it for one night. The sweater I found at the thrift store."

"Who is Freddy?" Reid had asked immediately, darting a quick glance at his foster father. Gideon had inwardly moaned. But the cat was out of the bag.

"Freddy Krueger from the_ Nightmare on Elm Street _movies, doofus! He's totally bad ass! He uses his claw-glove to cut people up in their dreams! He is the most awesome killer ever. Why? Who are you going as?"

"I was going to go as an FBI agent..." Reid started, but Daniel had laughed at that.

"No, no, no! It's Halloween. Do you know what the purpose of Halloween is?"

It was a stupid question to ask Spencer Reid. Reid had nodded solemnly.

"Halloween or All-Hallow's Eve is a Christian feast which incorporates elements from Pagan harvest festivals and festivals which honour the dead, in particular the Celtic festival Samhain. Samhain or Celtic New Year as it was popularized in the late 19th century by...

"Yeah, yeah, yeah-" Daniel had put up his hand to stop the sudden logorrhoea. "Why do we wear costumes on Halloween, though?"

"There are several theories about that. That it stems from early medieval practices of Mumming and going-a-souling and..."

"Shit! We're not in school, Reid. Why do we dress up as scary things?"

"We don't have to dress up as scary things." Reid said smartly, smiling over at Gideon, who was trying to look busy chopping carrots and celery and garlic for stir fry. The boys had trailed him to the kitchen to continue their debate, making him their unofficial judge and jury. 'There is no mention in any book of trick-or-treating before the 1930s. Trick-or-treating is a practice where the cultural appropriation of many different..._what, Daniel_?"

Daniel had just been staring at Reid, looking bored.

"Fine. Go as a G-man. But you're going to be the only kid in the neighbourhood not dressed up as something scary..."

That had been all the convincing Reid needed. He'd immediately glanced over at Gideon with puppy dog eyes and asked if he could go costume shopping. Despite the nimiety of toys and games Reid had amassed in the few short weeks since moving to Virginia, Halloween was special and the kid hadn't had a chance to pick out his own costume, an experience the profiler believed every American kid was entitled to do at least once during his or her childhood. Gideon had nodded. Cupped the veggies in his hands and let them topple into the frying pan to join the sesame oil and onions.

"First, though, I will need to watch more culturally relevant horror movies. I need to know what popular movie monsters to consider for my costume." Reid said, wrinkling his nose at the smell of dinner as if Gideon was scrambling human organs and gruesome unnamables together in the skillet instead of veggies and boneless chicken slices.

"Reid, I am not sure I want you watching scary movies..."

"Mr. Gideon, didn't you like scary movies when you were a kid?" Daniel had piped in, looking adorably and almost annoyingly mischievous. Reid was mischievous enough but if Reid were a Charles Dickens' character, Gideon would peg the young genius as "Oliver Twist", no doubt about it. Daniel, on the other hand, could easily be a modern-day "Artful Dodger". He was a kid, sure, but he was a relatively _old_ kid, one who wasn't as bright as Reid in the book department (although, he was clearly no dummy), but in the school of life and fast-talking and acting cute, Daniel Crane was a master. More than likely he'd had to master those skills just to keep his face relatively unmarred at the hands of his brute father but whatever the reason, he was still one smooth-talking boy. And he and Gideon both knew it.

"Yes, I liked to watch scary movies when I was a kid, Daniel, but today's movies are a lot more violent and I am not sure I want Reid watching them. And you don't have to call me Mr. Gideon."

"Didn't your parents say the same thing about Frankenstein when it first came out?" Daniel had prodded suavely, looking as innocent as all get-out. Gideon had to hold back a laugh.

"Daniel, I think Frankenstein came out in the 1930s or something..." Gideon said, not an ounce of the laughter he felt in his voice.

"1931." Reid informed solemnly. Gideon nodded in acknowledgment.

"Okay, okay... wasn't there ever _any_ movie you watched as a kid that your parents might not have wanted you to watch? I don't know what was big in the sixties but I am sure there must have been some scary movies kids were into back then..."

Gideon sighed tiredly. He knew eventually he'd have to concede defeat. Reid was a genius and Daniel was not far behind said genius in the grey matter department. Combined, they'd have a million and one reasons why today's horror movies were just as suitable for modern-day youngsters as _Frankenstein meets the Space Monster_ and _The Plague of the Zombies _had been back in his day. And on many levels, they'd probably be right.

"Fine, we'll get some movies for you and Reid to watch, under some conditions."

"What?"

"You guys have to watch _Mr. Sardonicus_ with me and we eat Mallo Cups and Oh Henry's and make popcorn. You can't watch horror flicks without buttered popcorn. It's a rule."

"Yeah, I can live with that." Reid said, smiling.

And that was how Gideon and Reid and Daniel Crane ended up watching a horror movie a day for 2 weeks.

Reid eventually decided to go as "Jason" from the "Friday the 13th" series. All that was needed was the hockey mask and a plastic machete and some raggy clothes, which they had no trouble finding between the local thrift store and costume supply store.

And now, finally, after days of alternating between anxious silence over the upcoming court case and hyper chatter about monsters and candy and the legalities of egging houses and throwing toilet paper loops over tree boughs, Halloween was here. It was 6 a.m. Reid was still sleeping.

Gideon opened the door to the boy's room, just a crack, and watched him sleep. The room was fairly dark. Reid's venetian blinds were closed. In one still arm was the stuffed sauropod, Jason (which Reid insisted on sleeping with even though Daniel scoffed and declared that only babies had stuffed animals) and in the alternate free hand, the plastic machete. On Reid's desk was a packet of fake blood that would be liberally applied to the plastic machete shortly before embarking on the quickly approaching vespertine candy collection. There were 3 pumpkins sitting in the kitchen, waiting to be sliced and diced into jack-o-lanterns. Because it was Wednesday, Daniel wouldn't be over until at least 4:00 and Rossi had given the okay for Reid to come down to the BSU and check the place out during the day. Between Halloween, the BSU visit and fears over having to testify, Reid had lost a lot of sleep recently and looked pale and drawn.

"Tell him to bring his pillow case or plastic jack-o-lantern or whatever he plans on using to collect treats," Rossi had ordered Gideon over the phone on the day the BSU trip was finalized.

"If you buy him anymore toys, I am going to have to disembowel you, David." Gideon had responded flatly. He hoped to God Reid would be here for Christmas, and was planning and acting as if he would be, but if the boy had this much stuff already, what would he possibly need at Christmas? Not to mention Reid was terrible at picking up after himself. Errant Lego blocks, action figures, crayons, Lincoln logs and meccano pieces seemed to always crop up unexpectedly and usually only after Gideon had stepped on them.

Reid jerked in his sleep, expression changing into something that looked mildly fearful. He moaned and turned onto his side, back facing Gideon. Gideon gently shut the door and waited. The kid would be up soon enough and, like the energizer bunny, he kept going and going and going.

Gideon went into the kitchen and put on the coffee pot. Took 2 slices of wonder bread out of the bread box and popped them into the toaster. Almost immediately the toaster began to smoke and spark. Gideon jerked the cord out of the wall with a torrent of curses, shook the bread into the sink and peered inside the toaster. Gunked all over the inside of the toaster was the glow-in-the-dark silly putty Daniel and Reid had been playing with the night before.

For geniuses, the two of them sure did some mighty stupid things. Gideon had told them not to microwave the silly putty after he had caught Reid walking around on the counter barefoot, looking for an appropriate "microwavable" bowl.

Apparently "don't stick silly putty in the toaster" was something that needed to be spelled out, too. _Sheesh._

* * *

Reid got up at half past 7 and shambled into the living room, yawning, his hair sticking up awkwardly in little spikes, greased with sleep sweat. His eyes were still swollen with sleep and starting to darken underneath. The stress was getting to him, that was obvious.

"Morning, sleepy head." Gideon said. The profiler was apparently reading the paper but what he'd really been doing was waiting for Reid to wake up. When had the boy stopped bouncing out of bed? Transitions were insidious, and by the time you noticed something was changing, more often than not, it had already changed and become the new thing. Like Reid's enthusiasm... by the time Gideon had noticed Reid was sleeping more often and was more tired than usual, the boy seemed like an emotional shadow of himself.

Reid yawned again, loudly, and stretched his arms back with a moan. Scrabbled at the side of his sleep-sweaty head and blinked.

"Mornin'. Can I have toaster strudels for breakfast?" Reid asked, still half stuck in the land of nod. The kid began to shamble towards the kitchen and as he did one Ninja Turtle slipped fell off his foot and was left behind, forgotten. Gideon got up and walked towards the kitchen. Reid was digging through the freezer silently.

"Actually, buddy, nothing that requires the toaster this morning, I'm afraid. We need to get a new toaster."

"Why?" Reid asked, eyes narrowing into sleepy, grumpy slits. Gideon had already decided that he wouldn't bring up the silly putty incident or chastise Reid today. He wanted the kid to remember Halloween as a fun day, a day of whimsy and magic and light-hearted boyhood pranks and not a day of being yelled at over doing something undeniably stupid.

"Our toaster broke." Gideon said simply. "So, it's cereal, I'm afraid. Or I can make you pancakes or French toast."

"Shit," Reid muttered, still in a sour mood. "I wanted toaster strudels."

"So. Cereal? Pancakes? Fruit?" Gideon spoke slowly, ignoring the swear, trying to redirect the boy's attention. Reid had begun cursing, mildly. No doubt the words weren't new to him, but Danny swore and chided Reid and Reid seemed to be picking up a foul mouth. Gideon planned to talk to him about it, but today was not the day.

"Cereal, I guess." Reid said, pulling a box of Count Chocula from the pantry and digging a plastic bowl out of the dishwasher. Reid poured milk over the cereal and onto the counter, grabbed a sponge and cleaned up his spill and took his cereal and a spoon to the living room.

Gideon followed him back, mildly disturbed by the kid's lack of enthusiasm.

"You remember what day it is today, right, Kiddo?"

Reid squinted; then the light dawned. "Oh. Yeah. Halloween." The ghost of a smile played over his lips. He dug a spoonful of brown frosted cereal out of the bowl and rammed it in his mouth.

"You don't seem very excited. Remember, today is the day you're going to go visit Rossi at the BSU? See the facilities?" Gideon edged his own voice was excitement. Reid nodded and obviously made an effort to seem happy.

"Yeah! Yeah, that's right. Cool." Reid's voice was sugary-sweet and Gideon wasn't buying it for a moment.

"You're stressed about court, aren't you?" Gideon said after a 30 second intermission of listening to Reid crunch cereal. Finally the kid nodded softly.

"Yeah. I am excited. Really. I am. I just..." Reid trailed, trying to express a fairly mature emotional concept. That a person could be genuinely excited about something and genuinely worried and distraught about something else, at the exact same time, and the emotions weren't clear or easy to sort or manage. Gideon nodded. Reid didn't need to say anymore, he already knew.

They sat for close to 40 minutes with Reid eating cereal (refilling his bowl a whopping 3 times and apparently indifferent to the milk streaming down his chin every time he spoke with his mouth full), watching the morning news. Pile-up on Interstate 64, 14 dead. A Texaco tanker had rammed into the initial crash (two cars, one in the wrong lane) and that had been that.

Reid shivered in his pyjamas. "I wonder if they knew they were going to die today." He said softly. Photographs of the truck were being aired, orange red flames and black smoke, cars smashed together like children's toys.

"I don't think anybody ever really knows." Gideon answered back, more than a little worried by the kid's toneless fatigue. First the sleeping too much and now that pesky little comment.

Gideon clipped the News off, replacing it with the kids' channel. Cartoons. Transformers. Optimus Prime was yelling at something.

"Come on, Kiddo. Let's get dressed. You know what you're wearing to the BSU?"

"If I go as an FBI agent, Daniel says that's lame. He says that if I am going to the BSU I shouldn't be acting like a kid, especially if I consider the FBI a prospective future employer. He says they'll take me more seriously if I dress my age."

"Reid, it's Halloween and you are a kid. And besides..."

"Yeah, yeah, it will be cute." Reid said cheekily, fully aware, apparently, of just how adorable he looked decked out as a miniature agent. Gideon shrugged.

"Fiiiine." Reid eventually droned, but he was smiling a bit and 10 minutes later when he emerged from his room in full agent regalia, he had apparently forgotten his embarrassment and some of the tiredness around his eyes seemed to have drained away.

"Look at you!" Gideon's voice was full of delight. "A real life little Herman Hollis!"

Reid rolled his eyes but he was smiling again; a genuine smile not on the fake plastic stand-ins he wore when he was trying to get his foster father to stop worrying.

"You feed Castor and Pollux?"

"Yup."

"They have water?"

Reid nodded his head quickly.

"Bed made?"

"Gideooooon..." Reid whined. Gideon grinned and let himself relax a little. When the kid started making his bed without being asked, or, worse, making it without complaint when asked, then it was time to get worried.

"David said to bring a pillow-case." Gideon said, smiling wider. Reid looked completely mystified.

"A pillow case? Why?"

"That's what you trick-or-treat with. The treats go in the pillow case..." Gideon prompted and slowly the light came back on behind Reid's hazel eyes.

"Oh...okay. Just a sec."

The kid scampered back to his room and came back with a pillow-case dotted with glow in the dark constellations. "This okay?"

"That'll do. You ready?"

"Yup." Reid croaked. Gideon checked his bag for the Polaroid and Canon, stuffed in a book he'd picked up for Rossi as a gag gift entitled "The great FBI agents of yesteryear" and followed Reid out to the car.

* * *

By the time they got to the Academy, Reid was pale.

"You okay, Buddy?" Gideon asked, pulling the car into the parking lot. Reid opened up his door, leaned out. Gideon jumped out of the driver's and went around to the passenger side, alarmed.

"Reid?"

"I just got a bit dizzy... and the back of my mouth tastes salty."

"Okay." Gideon said and crouched down and rubbed half a dozen comforting circles on the kid's back. "I think maybe you ate a bit too much cereal, too. And I know how excited you've been to come here."

Reid made a gagging noise and puked on the curb, streams of half-digested Count Chocula spilling out and over his shoes. He retched for a good two minutes, smacked his lips, groaned. But some of the color was coming back into his cheeks.

"Car sick, I think." Reid said with a spaced-out look in his eyes. "This is pretty surreal."

"Kinda scary, I guess. Huh?" Gideon prompted.

Gideon could remember riding in the back of his father's Station Wagon half-way across the country to Cape Canaveral, Florida when he was 14 to see the Apollo 11 ascend. He'd guzzled Tang and bottled root beer and eaten PB and J sandwiches by the bagful and flipped through old copies of _Tales of the Crypt_ and _Crime SuspenStories _(and the occasional Playboy, hidden inside a comic) with his younger cousin Scotty while his mother chattered in the front passenger seat and his father swore at incompetent drivers and lit camel after camel, filling the interior of the car with the sickly sweet blue-grey reek of unfiltered cigarettes. Gideon had thought he might go crazy and blow up the radio with black cats if he had to listen to one more go of "Love in the Rain" or hear his father bitch out one more old woman on the road.

When they'd finally arrived, a few days before the launch and pulled the lawn chairs out amongst the throng of equally excited onlookers the reality of where they _were_ hit the young Jason Gideon full in the solar plexus like a ton of bricks.

All his child-hood dreams of space flight and the countless hours spent in younger years in the local Odeon, snacking on popcorn with Johnny Bower and Phillip Crumb and watching films like _First Men in the Moon_ and _The Human Duplicators_ came screaming into his head like banshees. He'd seen _2001: A Space Odyssey_ just the year before and while Johnny and Phillip had bitched about it being boring and whispered shit about the girls three rows down, 14-year-old Jason Gideon had been mesmerized and the thought "_They're going to do it, they're going to the moon, this is going to happen and I am going to be here to see it_" bugled its way through the young man's consciousness like a torrent of angry wasps. Two days before lift-off the area had been packed and Gideon had taken two steps out of the 1966 Ford Country Squire before up-chucking his cookies all over the sidewalk while his idiot cousin he-hawed and his father muttered about the heat.

To Spencer Reid, the FBI Academy was no doubt his Cape Canaveral.

"You feeling a bit better now?" Gideon said after a few minutes of Reid sitting on the curb and drawing in slow, deep breaths. His face had gone white and then grey and then green and now was turning back to normal. Reid nodded and stood up shakily.

"Gideon, you have any gum?" Reid mumbled, huffing into one hand and smelling his fumes. "I smell like puke."

"Sorry. No gum. But we can get some from a vending machine?"

Reid nodded dazedly and followed Gideon towards the entrance of the building. After the first dozen meters he began to speak, reciting stats and information about the building and the grounds.

* * *

"Reid!" Rossi said warmly when he saw the little boy standing in the BSU bullpen with his keeper, looking wide-eyed and a little pale. Reid grinned instantly. The kid was wearing his FBI gear and looked even cuter than he had the first time he'd tried to stuff off, because he was surrounded by slightly curious trainees and BSU agents and the contrast in his size and age was even more pronounced.

"Hi David." Reid said, glancing back at Gideon to make sure he was close. Gideon smiled warmly and they crossed over to where David Rossi had been waiting. Just then a young man in a suit came running up to Rossi, face flushed.

"Jesus Christ, sir, we found 2 more and the sick son of a bitch cut their tongues out this time and..." The young man stopped in his tracks and blinked at Reid as if he was having a sudden psychotic break. Reid smiled shyly. The young man glanced over at Gideon.

"Sir, I'm sorry... I didn't see you here and..."

"It's all right, Jacobs." Gideon said, trying not to smile. Andy Jacobs was the newest member of their team, the youngest, and he had a tendency to run his mouth off without thinking first. Rossi and the other senior agents found Jacobs a welcome relief in their world of grisly, unofficiated horror but for the sake of propriety had to act as if he was over the line. It was hard, though.

"This... is this the little boy... hi there?" Jacobs babbled, leaning down to shake Reid's hand. Reid shook it and smiled up at Gideon uncertainly.

"Reid, this is Jacobs, he works here with us. I've told him all about you." Rossi said, letting Jacobs off the hook. "Jacobs, you want to take Reid around, show him some stuff?"

"But sir... about the fax?" Jacobs glanced back at Reid and smiled again.

"Yeah, I'll go talk to Fallin. DC police don't want us there; there is little we can do." Rossi kept his voice artificially light; leant down and patted Reid on the top of his capped head.

"Um, so you want to see where I work? Did you bring your pillow case?" Jacobs said, clearly not used to kids. Reid nodded and held up his pillow case which Jacobs dutifully admired. Gideon turned and bit the inside of his cheek so as not to smile.

"Um... Gideon? Can I get some change for the vending machine?" Reid said. Jacobs' awkward nature was drawing the kid out of his shell a bit. Gideon nodded and produced 3 quarters, laid them flat in the boy's palm and smiled professionally at the younger agent.

"I trust you'll show him some cool stuff?" Gideon said.

"Um... of course, sir."

"I can see where you work later, huh, Gideon?"

Gideon nodded. Could feel the eyes of his colleagues on him and knew that everyone was itching to ask how his "break" was going and how Reid was doing. When you profiled the sickest psychos on the planet and had to clean up their dirty work, you either became really close with your colleagues or you found a new profession.

Gideon watched Jacobs' and Reid walk away, heard Reid tell Jacobs' about vomiting in the parking lot and thus, needing gum to get rid of the taste of bile. Count on Reid to instinctively want to make an awkward agent feel at ease. Jacobs' muttered something about getting sick on the tilt a whirl all the time as a kid and Reid chortled laughter and then they had disappeared out of sight.

Gideon smiled to himself and went to the break room for coffee. Knew that Reid would have a bazillion questions and that Jacobs', although socially clumsy, was the right man to lead him around. Under the smile of a proud father was the unease of the place, growing like a clenched fist around his intestines. Gideon felt a subtle, inexorable pressure to return to his old stomping grounds and he knew it was expected of him, but he didn't want to and the more time he spent with Reid the less desire he had to come back here and swim around in the Abyss. If you were a special agent and you took an extended period of leave after a particularly gruesome case, no matter the reason, rumours started flying about around your mental health. It was inevitable.

* * *

**Okay, this is the end of chapter 38.** Please review guys. Have an awesome day. And in case anyone is wondering, black cats= black cat firecrackers. I played with them a bit as a kid and almost blew my arm off one or two times. You can google "black cat firecrackers" if you want to see what they look like (I will always remember the logo).


	39. Chapter 39: Halloween part 1

**Title:** Losing My Religion by Lexikal (Chapter Thirty Nine)  
**Rating:** M for graphic violence against a child and language (in the first chapter, chapter 8 and chapter 10 so far. Chapter 28 has Reid discussing specific acts of abuse but not at length.)  
**Fandom:** Criminal Minds  
**Summary:** Spencer Reid, 10, is removed from his father's "care" after being violently attacked and is fostered by his old mentor, Jason Gideon. This is a sequel to "That's me in the corner". Features child abuse, do not read if underage.

**Author's Note: **So, maybe 45 chapters, maybe 50. Not sure. Reviews and constructive criticism are always welcome. I am not liking my writing lately. I just want to delete every sentence I write, almost as fast as I write it. Hopefully it's a temporary thing because this is fan fiction and I want to get all these fics finished before I tackle my own writing projects.

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"_**Nothing on Earth is so beautiful as the final haul on Halloween night."- Steve Almond**_

It was two in the afternoon by the time they got home, Reid with a pillow case full of FBI brochures and stickers, window decals and chocolate and whatever else the agents who had got Rossi's memo to spoil their surprise visitor had been able to scrounge up. Reid had checked out the computer analyst's office, seen five interrogation rooms, walked around the academy halls and met several trainees and Gideon wasn't sure how Rossi had pulled it off but every agent they encountered had a mini chocolate bar or bag of candy corn on his or her person. Everyone had been very professional, very cool; slipping candy or stickers into Reid's pillow case like it was an every-day occurrence (or a very strange money drop), stooping to shake his hand, most of them clad in Ray-ban sunglasses even though it wasn't a particularly sunny day. Oh yeah, Rossi had pulled some strings, all right.

By noon the kid had chocolate on his cheeks and was zooming, chattering a mile a minute like a tiny auctioneer and sitting in a chair in one the main BSU debriefing rooms, spinning around in circles while Jacobs spun circles in his own chair and Reid answered criminology questions in a loud, hyper voice that foreshadowed later irritability and brain fog. Gideon had caught up with some of his team, answered the perfunctory questions about fostering a hyper little genius (_It's fine, thanks, he's a great little boy... yeah, very curious_), drank coffee (it still tasted horrible and Williams was still burning it), made small talk (BSU "small talk" almost always included the off-handed mention of a decapitation or two) and listened to a few team members discuss a recent case because, hey, hearing about what some sexual sadist was doing to gay college kids down in Louisiana was the kind of chit-chat you just couldn't afford to pass up.

Reid asked about guns, and academy training, and when you got to carry a gun and _hey, oh by the way, can I see that? Yeah, no, can you take it out of the holster? Ever shot anyone with that? REALLY? _

Gideon glanced over at Rossi and chuckled more than once. There'd been "fake" files to try and dissect, similar to the ones given to new academy trainees, only sanitized a bit (a lot) because of Reid's age and Rossi had managed to find an FBI recruitment video from the early 1960s which he played for Reid on a projector while Reid chortled and laughed and flicked candy corn at the wall despite being told to stop several times. Gideon watched the old scratchy black and white film in amazement and got flashbacks to his grammar school days, when "G-man" meant dealing with mobsters and carrying cyanide capsules in case of capture by the "enemy" (the enemy was always a Commie or a Mafioso, and all of them ended up in Alcatraz with the bird-man, such was the strange logic of childhood).

Reid had seen one of the indoor firing ranges (_No, kiddo, I'm sorry but you can't shoot the gun...yes, I know it's Halloween; you still can't shoot at the targets..._) and the trail where trainees ran obstacle courses. The highlight of the kid's day seemed to be when Jacobs' showed him a room in which Thomas Harris, the famous novelist, had sat and interviewed FBI agents while doing research for his novel "Silence of the Lambs" (_Hey, did you know he based Buffalo Bill off three main serial killers? Ted Bundy, Gary Heidnik... you knew that already? Wow_).

Reid already had an FBI cap and shirt, of course, but in addition he was given buttons, magnets, pencils with the FBI logo and a coffee mug with the FBI seal. Jacobs' had offered him some stuff printed with kids in mind, which made Reid grin in precocious amusement and which was promptly stuffed in his pillow case. _Donald the Dog would like to talk to you about STRANGER DANGER! Do you know what to do if you are lost?_

By the time they were back in the car Reid was adrenaline and caffeine shaky.

"You have a good day?" Gideon asked unnecessarily, starting the engine. Reid grinned to show that he had a good day, cheeks flushed, looking a little dazed and about ready to drop. From the look on his face you would've thought the boy had spent the day at Disney Land or Sea World or Six Flags, not wandering around what amounted to offices and looking at projectors and plaques on walls of rather dour looking men in suits. To each his own.

"So, you think you still want to work there when you grow up? Hardly the stuff of James Bond, huh?"

"It was cool. I can't believe I was walking around in the same place where so many famous agents have been." Reid fell quiet. "Rossi sure spoils me."

"Rossi likes you. And he doesn't have any kids. And he gets a kick out of watching my blood pressure shoot through the roof," Gideon said mildly. He half kicked himself, expecting Reid to launch into an interrogation about what that comment about his blood pressure meant, but Reid was silent. Introspective. Worn out.

"I feel tired." Reid finally admitted after 10 minutes of unusual silence.

"Not too tired to go trick or treating tonight, I hope?" Gideon queried. Even Rossi had raised his eyebrows in mild surprise when Reid had admitted that he was getting tired and maybe it was time to go home.

"No. No, just kinda' shaky. Too much excitement, maybe."

"You had a big day." Gideon agreed. "You want the radio on?"

"Okay," Reid's voice was pallid. He'd been excited and was worn out; but still, under his eyes lay the dark circles Gideon had been noticing more and more often. Reid hadn't had them a few weeks ago and they made the boy look ill. Of course, he'd had only sugary cereal and candy all day, and thrown up the cereal earlier, so maybe that had a little bit to do with his complexion.

"When we get home, I'm going to make you a peanut butter sandwich." Gideon said softly. Reid didn't respond. Gideon risked a quick glance over at the child and was a little surprised to see Reid slumped against the passenger seat window, face ashen except for the fuchsia circles sitting high on his cheeks like rouge stains. Too much excitement was part of it, but ten year olds were usually little reservoirs of kinetic energy and that was doubly true for Spencer Reid. The boy was trying his hardest to seem normal, but he was paler than usual, less talkative, more sleepy. Stress. All stress. Had to be. Still, it was a little disconcerting to see.

"I think maybe I have a blood sugar problem or something," Reid said suddenly, slowly, voice fogging the glass. "I haven't been feeling too well lately, in general." He was half asleep or he would never have admitted that. Reid blew on the glass again and began to draw stick men in the fogged window. Gideon reran the kid's admission through his mind, and tried to imagine just what it might feel like to be ten years old and dealing with everything this kid was dealing with, knowing the emotional marathon was far from over. He never complained about pain or not feeling well, so to admit he was feeling under the weather meant he was exhausted and knew it was showing, and worse; it meant he didn't have the energy to even try and fake wellness.

"You still want to go trick or treating tonight, buddy?"

"Yeah. Because..." And then Reid stopped talking, leaving the unspoken fear dangling in the silent vehicle like a spectre_. Yeah, because if I don't go tonight I might never get another chance._

"Okay, but try eating something with some protein when we get home. Maybe have some milk, and you can have a nap before you and Daniel go out tonight. And you guys only have to go out for half an hour or so if you're really tired..." Gideon stopped himself. He was talking too fast, trying too hard to preserve a day that should have been special and magical and, for whatever reason, was turning out to be eerily quiet and pale as it wore on. The kid had seemed fine at the BSU and then, within the course of about ten minutes had seemed to wilt. It had been a dramatic transformation.

"You don't have to go out tonight if you feel really rough," Gideon reassured, glancing over at the bundle in his passenger seat. Reid exhaled loudly and shrugged.

"I'm just gonna' sleep for a bit, okay?"

"Sure."

"I had a really great day, Gideon. I think I just ate too much sugar. I'm sorry for flicking candy corn at the walls."

"That's okay. Listen, buddy, if you are sick... Halloween is just a day like any other, really..."

"I think I just ate too much sugar, is all. I'll be fine by the time Daniel comes over."

Reid slumped back against the glass and shut his eyes wearily. Gideon thought about it, decided Reid was probably right. Not enough sleep, too much sugar and now a sugar crash. No wonder he looked, and no doubt felt, like death warmed over. On the radio, Sinead O'Connor was singing her newest ballad to depression.

"_'Cause nothing compares... nothing compares to you...It's been so lonely without you here...like a bird without a song_..."

"You want me to turn this off?" Gideon asked, already reaching for the dial. Reid shook his head tiredly.

"No, it's okay, this song is okay. Besides, it's better than maybe having to listen to that It-must-have-been-love song again."

"I'll leave it then."

By the time Gideon pulled the car into the driveway and killed the engine the boy was nearly asleep. He moaned and blinked at the sudden lack of motion, looked blearily at his foster father with an annoyed sigh.

"I'm going to go have a nap in my room now, okay?"

Gideon nodded simply and watched Reid slink out of the car, holding his pillowcase in front of him, eyes narrowed into tired slits, head drooping like a plant that's been forgotten in some back room. He shuffled up the driveway, sleepy but not as pale-looking as he had been, waited patiently while Gideon unlocked the front door, quiet except for raspy breathing that denoted the potential arrival of some flu bug. Reid sauntered into the house and retreated to his bedroom for a rest without another word.

Gideon watched him and felt a small chill shimmy down his spine like some forgotten monster from childhood. Was the kid just getting a bug, or was something else going on? The profiler stopped and checked out the calendar pinned next to the front door, next to the key hook and the little wood letter sorter marked "In/Out Box". Today's date had been circled numerous times in red marker; Reid's childish printing declaring HALLOWEEN in extra large, extravagant bubble letters. The profiler smiled wanly and flipped to November.

November's image was a beach at sunset; a typical, prosaic image remarkable only in its' mundanity. Gideon's warm brown eyes flicked over the calendar, caught Reid's tight, uneasy cursive neatly hidden inside the square reserved for Saturday, November 10th. Ten days away. The kid had written: _Be ready for Court. _Four simple little words but suddenly Reid's fatigue made sense. Between today and Saturday, November the 10th there was nothing to stand in the way of the kid's fear. Sure, there would be meetings with Hotch and play-dates with Daniel and bowls of overturned cereal on the carpet, but no other looming, big distractions; nothing like a dental appointment or a trip to the BSU or the first (and possibly last) trick-or-treating excursion of his young life. In ten days Spencer Reid would be sitting in a court room decorated with stuffed teddy-bears and filled with curious spectators while his father sat a mere twenty or thirty feet away with his implacable eyes and silently dared his son to speak the truth.

Gideon frowned and flipped back to October. Every major date or event (Halloween, getting the rats, seeing the dentist, meeting Martin, meeting Hotch) had been written in the appropriate box by Gideon with the odd additional note tagged on later by the boy wonder. Now... tonight was it. Last big thing. For all Reid's excitement, tonight probably felt, in some weird and nauseating way, like a last supper.

Gideon had known about the court date, of course. In ten days there would be a formal review. Hotch would be there; William Reid and his "team" would be there. The presiding judge would meet Reid, ask him some questions. Nothing too big. It hadn't really stuck out in Gideon's mind because, to an adult, it was simply an arraignment and Reid wouldn't have to legally speak to his father or even look at him. Reid's dad would be formally informed of the charges and depending on Reid's replies and Hotch's recommendations that could very well be the end of Spencer's involvement in the case. Not likely, but one could always hope. Gideon himself had marked the day and the time on the calendar but it was Reid's small, hesitant words, written like a warning to his future self which really made the profiler understand the pallor and the drained look behind those decade-old eyes: _Be ready for Court._

Gideon sighed and pinned the November page up. Glanced in the direction of Reid's bedroom. He wanted to go and speak to the boy, reassure him, but Reid did look sickly and probably needed his rest. It was just a hunch, anyway. Maybe the kid really was just getting sick and just (_and yeah right, The Flintstones is historically accurate_) needed his rest.

There wouldn't be enough time to really have a serious sit-down talk with Reid now, anyway. In another 30 or 45 minutes Daniel would be over and Reid would almost certainly put on his happy face and the early afternoon would quickly morph into early evening and then full on night and the pair would be off to do what boys did on the last night of October.

With any luck at all, Daniel's excitement would rub off on Reid and Reid would forget about Saturday, November the 10th for the rest of the day and Halloween would continue without any hiccups.

So why didn't he believe that?

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Daniel rang the front door at 12 after 4 and bobbed his way into Gideon's front hallway, already dressed in his costume, body springing along with unbridled excitement.

"You are...all...my chillllldren now!" The kid snarled in a mock theatrical tone before throwing his masked head back and laughing manically, obviously doing his best to impersonate the Hollywood monster known as Freddy Krueger.

"You're getting good at that. Listen, Daniel, Reid's not feeling too well today so I was wondering-"

"Aw, sheeeeeet... He's still good for trick or treating and stuff, right?" The boy's eyes looked uneasy and almost a little mad. Halloween was a big deal to kids.

"I'll be fine," Reid said, startling them both. The kid was already dressed in his raggy clothes, holding his plastic machete and his mask, one seasonal amenity in each clenched hand. He still looked tired, but not as pale and in the gloom of the late unlit afternoon hallway.

"You guys aren't going yet, are you? I mean, it's not even 5 yet. And Reid, I want you to eat something." Gideon was aware, suddenly, of being out of place. Halloween was a time for kids. It was their night and the magic belonged to those that still, on some level, feared whatever might creep around in the closets or the cellars and pull unsuspecting believers into their lairs with gruesome, clawed hands or spongy tentacles. There seemed something intrinsically wrong about mother-henning a child genius in front of his only like-aged friend on this day of ghoulish revelry.

Reid rolled his eyes and almost managed to look embarrassed about Gideon giving a damn about him. Daniel followed Reid as the younger boy sauntered into the kitchen and pulled wonder bread out of the bread box and Jiff out of the cupboard. Reid slathered peanut butter on the bread and dripped it uncaringly on the formica, took a huge bite of his open faced sandwich, chewing loudly, looking at Gideon with an expression that said: _Please don't embarrass me in front of my friend_.

"You want one, Daniel?" Reid asked after earning a silent nod of understanding from his foster father, mouth full of white bread and peanut butter, but what the sentence really sounded like was: _Ewe wan-un Dan-ul?_ Daniel smirked and shook his head.

"I nuked a Swanson's at my old man's before coming over. I swear to God, I don't know how he eats that crap every day. And the cranberry sauce that comes with the Salisbury steak? Smells like puke, I kid you not, smells like week old barf and-" Daniel caught Gideon watching him appraisingly and grinned good-naturedly, in tacit appreciation of the grown-up's dislike of cuss words. "Uh...yeah. You know. Already ate, dude."

Gideon smirked and held up a hand to indicate he wanted the floor. Reid still looked a little shaky and leaving at not-yet-five to beg for candy was a bit over the top, even by the overly-enthusiastic standards of prepubescence.

"You guys can go out at six. It won't be dark by 7 or 7:30 and an hour is more than enough time to beg for candy when this house is already stock-piled with every processed food item in the Safeway that contains high-fructose corn syrup."

Both Reid and Daniel sighed dramatically.

"We actually wanted to stay out past dark. I wanted to show Reid old crazy Joe and he doesn't usually get going till after dark..."

Gideon ground his teeth silently and somehow, calling on years of profiling, managed to sound half-interested in Daniel's proposal. "Who is old crazy Joe?"

"He's this old hermit that lives on St. George's Street and likes to sit in a lawn chair with a few 6-packs of Beck's and his Daisy air rifle every Halloween and sometimes on Devil's night, though I don't think he was out yesterday. Oh yeah, sometimes he's out on New Year's Eve, too. It's awesome, though. He thinks everyone is out to egg him or t.p. his lawn or something, and he'll start screaming at you if you even try to walk down that street after the street lights start turning on. Reid _has_ to see him, just to get an idea. I mean, we're talking seriously funny shi...tuff. _Stuff_. He's harmless, but really funny." Daniel's cheeks looked like little apples, he was grinning so hard. No doubt old crazy Joe was a lot of fun but his description alone sounded iffy at best and Reid, for all his book smarts, could very quickly go squirrely with panic when faced with real life stress. Anyone unbalanced enough to be known by the community's kids and have his own nickname, for crying out loud, wasn't someone Reid needed to "meet".

"No. I don't know who this gentleman is, but no, Daniel. Reid. I don't want you guys even going near that street, if anything in that last ill-considered rant is even partially accurate."

"He doesn't actually shoot his air rifle or anything. I don't think he even realizes it is only an air rifle. He just waves it around and raves about Gooks in black pyjamas and how the kids of today are all commies that think the world owes them something." Daniel's eyes were lit up with the inner light of childhood that makes other people's insanity seem funny and quaint. Whoever this guy was, he was a mini-celebrity, obviously. Gideon shook his head firmly.

"Look, either I chaperone you two around the neighbourhood, or you agree to a few rules."

"Awwww..." They both complained in unison. Gideon bit the inside of his cheek.

"No deliberately seeking out people in the neighbourhood with...problems...to laugh at. That includes this Crazy old Joe character. No t.p.-ing anyone's property, no egging, no firecrackers, no cherry bombs, nothing that requires a match to light, nothing that explodes, no beer-" This last commandment was aimed at Reid with a hairy eyeball. Reid shifted uncomfortably and nodded.

"That takes all the fun out of the night!" Daniel whined loudly, eyes still dancing with god-knew-what memories of mayhem and juvenile debauchery, most certainly applying to one unstable war vet with a penchant for Daisy air rifles.

"It's that, or I walk you guys around the neighbourhood all night..." Gideon sighed and scrubbed at his day old beard. Daniel was a good kid but he made Reid look complacent and calm by comparison.

Daniel pouted and looked ridiculously offended at that suggestion. Reid shot his older friend a look that clearly said: _Shut up. All parents have to say that stuff, so shut up and shut yer yap, stupid! _

"Reid. Daniel. I'm serious. You guys are going out trick or treating. That means you ring on doorbells and get candy and come home."

"Fine. I agree. Oh yeah, Daniel is allowed to stay over tonight, right? So we can sort candy and stay up later and tell ghost stories and stuff?" Reid smiled very sweetly. Daniel swayed back on the balls of his feet, doing his best impression of an altar boy. Neither act was very convincing.

"Is it okay with your father, Daniel? You've been spending a lot of time over here."

"Ah, he won't mind. He's rarely home before 1 or 2 in the morning on Halloween anyway. He likes..." Daniel trailed off, clearly rethinking the next part of his sentence. Gideon sighed mildly.

"Look, we'll phone him now and ask. Okay?"

"He probably won't be home."

"We'll phone him." Gideon said again, edging his tone with steel. Daniel nodded and followed the profiler to the living room without another word, suddenly aware that despite all his excitement he was treading on thin ice. He'd said too much and already cost Reid the chance of seeing the whacked out Crazy-old-Joe and the use of whatever firecrackers Daniel had undoubtedly stock-piled in deference to the ephemeral sanctity of the night. Reid trailed the two, shooting daggers into the back of the older boy's head. When Spencer Reid shot you the evil eye for talking too much, you darn well knew you had overstepped the bounds of sane disclosure, shot right past the event horizon of verbosity and into the black hole of verbal diarrhea itself.

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The two left at 6:30. Between Daniel's arrival and the departure time Daniel had sat and done his algebra homework in the living room and hastily eaten a bowl of Kraft Dinner smothered in ketchup (despite not being hungry), occasionally biting on the end of his Ticonderoga 2 pencil anxiously while bitching about the torture that was math.

Gideon had tried, unsuccessfully, to get Reid to open up about his anxiety regarding the 10th of November, talking in a hushed, patient tone in the kitchen while Reid hummed some nameless, annoying tune and did his best to look bored. Reid had claimed he was "okay" about the upcoming date and that it wasn't really "that big of a deal" and Gideon decided not to push his luck, especially with the older boy over. At 7, Gideon went over the rules again and laid out the importance of being home on time. The home-arrival time of 9:00 p.m. was decided on (which Gideon felt was a bit too late, seeing as 9:00 in the minds of hyperactive kids was more like 10:00 when they were having a good time and finally checked their watches, but Daniel was a rather tall boy for twelve and Reid, for all his problems, had been taking care of himself for most of his life so cutting the evening short to satisfy his own qualms seemed a little unfair).

Reid, never having gone out on Halloween before for anything more spectacular than picking up a quart of milk or a box of tampons for his mother seemed thrilled by every allowance presented to him. Daniel muttered that they weren't babies and that coming home before Midnight was "lame", but Gideon knew a lot of the older boy's mouthing off was usual juvenile posturing and trying to look cool around Reid, and he let it go with little more than the occasional warning glance.

Gideon had grabbed the pair a couple of glow-sticks at the dollar store and Reid "broke" his stick and giggled delightedly as the rod turned a bright neon green as chemicals (Phenyl oxalate with fluorescent dye and hydrogen peroxide, according to Reid) united. Daniel showed Reid how to tie the glow-stick around his neck on a piece of string so cars wouldn't hit them. Reid grabbed his backpack and pillowcase and the vial of fake-blood and chattered about how awesome the night was already turning out.

Gideon wished them good luck and then the front door slammed shut with a resounding bang that, for some reason, reminded Gideon of some long-forgotten scrabbled casket lid slamming forever shut on all the ephemeralities of childhood. When would the boy see the last monster movie that really scared him? Read the last comic that really mattered before it lost its appeal and faded away in memory and appreciation like the ink it had been printed with? No one knew the answers to any of those questions and because of that there was always a bittersweet quality to certain days as far as Jason Gideon was concerned. When the day or event involved Spencer Reid, the bitter quality of the sweetness was amplified. Reid had already missed out on so much and what he was getting back in piecemeal now was tainted by worry for a future that was decorated with the threat of all-too-familiar monsters the universe saw fit to dangle in his mind's eye like hideous Punch and Judy marionettes. Except instead of Punch and Judy, their names were William and Diana Reid.

Gideon sighed, frowning; lost in dire and miserable thoughts. Maybe he should have let the boys go jeer at Crazy old Joe. He chewed his lower lip, and thought about his own morose mood and the idea of Reid starring bug-eyed and speechless at a psychotic vet with an unloaded air rifle swinging in one frail arm like a club, drunk off his ass and yelling at masked trick-or-treaters about communism and the horrors of Nam. The profiler laughed a bit (not an entirely good natured laugh), shut his eyes tiredly. No. He'd made the right decision.

_Obviously._

Gideon sniffed and could smell, far off, the odour of leaves burning; of fields alight and under those smells the faintest whiff of wieners being charred over a fire pit. Someone was having a bon fire, no doubt, and the black, smoky scent drifted on the profiler's consciousness like the ghosts of Halloweens past come back to visit for the most fleeting of moments. That smell, the burning of leaves mixed with the salty, charred scent of camp-fire wieners was the quintessential smell of the season for Gideon. If someone had asked him at that second if the smell was real or a dredged up memory of his own boyhood days, the man wouldn't have been able to confidently answer.

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**Chapter 39 is FINIS. Please review.** The story is actually winding down, but we still have a good ten chapters left. There'll be the prerequisite angst and tears, don't worry. I'm not happy with this story right now but I will definitely finish it.


	40. Chapter 40: Halloween part 2

**Title:** Losing My Religion by Lexikal (Chapter Forty)  
**Rating:** M for graphic violence against a child and language (in the first chapter, chapter 8 and chapter 10 so far. Chapter 28 has Reid discussing specific acts of abuse but not at length.)  
**Fandom:** Criminal Minds  
**Summary:** Spencer Reid, 10, is removed from his father's "care" after being violently attacked and is fostered by his old mentor, Jason Gideon. This is a sequel to "That's me in the corner". Features child abuse, do not read if underage.

**Author's Note: **Enjoy and please review.

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"_**For all its uncertainty, we cannot flee the future."- Barbara Jordan**_

Both boys had nearly full sleeping bags of candy after an hour on the prowl. Reid pulled his mask off in the early evening gloom and wiped his face, readjusted his glasses and grinned.

"This is great!"

"I know. Pretty cool, right?" Daniel rummaged through his pillow case and pulled out a Reece's peanut butter cup. He tore the wax paper off the candy in one fluid motion and crammed the entire candy in his mouth, chewing with his mouth open. Reid said something about checking all candy first for tears or rips and Daniel simply rolled his eyes. Reid shut up, looking mildly ashamed of himself.

"Sucks we can't see crazy old Joe..." Daniel said after a minute. The street was still full of other kids, trundling along as cats and witches and skeletons, their flashlights bobbing wildly in their hands and playing the light over the sidewalk and street like beacons seeking out the ghoulies. Reid's face was flushed, his eyes shining. Daniel looked a bit bored.

"Well, we can do anything Gideon didn't expressly forbid," Reid's voice was uncertain. He knew that sentiment wasn't exactly keeping with the spirit with which his foster father had entrusted him to his own devices, but he also didn't want to look like a freaking pussy in front of his friend.

"I hawked a pack of Viceroys from my old man." Daniel pulled the crumpled pack out of his jacket and showed Reid. Reid made a sour face, remembering older times when he'd smoked and what had happened, what those seemingly innocuous "guilty pleasures" symbolized in his own life. The pain the end of those damned "smokes" could cause when pressed into quivering, milk white flesh. The smell of skin burning, the sound like crackling rice krispies, the laughter... Daniel caught the expression and laughed heartily, mistaking the look of abhorrence for good old fashioned childish piety.

"Come on. You have enough candy, right? This is getting lame and most of the good stuff is already gone. I vote we go to the park. Or we go see Crazy old Joe just for shits and giggles."

"The park?" Reid asked, deliberately ignoring the second proposal.

"Yeah, let's go to the park and eat candy and have a couple smokes. C'mon." Daniel picked his bike up off the lawn he'd thrown it on and began to wheel it in the direction of the aforementioned park, not looking to see if Reid would follow. Both of them knew Reid would follow.

The park was really just a little dirt patch full of the odd clot of scrubby grass. At one time there had been a playground here, but it had long since been vandalized out of existence. The swings were broken, but their chains still dangled from the cross beam, rusted and lonely and useless. To Reid, they looked like weak, ropy arms leaning down for their babies (_swings? Where are you?)_ but finding nothing but cold, dark air. The thought gave Reid a chill and a sudden, gut-achy sense of sadness that his ten year old mind couldn't really make sense of.

There still was a tire swing suspended by chains, covered in graffiti and under this tire swing; the remnants of hundreds if not thousands of cigarette butts that had been discarded at the filter. Clearly this was a place that had been usurped from the little kids and taken over by the town's juvenile delinquents. Reid felt a little hesitant stepping onto the land, as if he were trespassing into the lair of Grendel or some Barbarian place of Cannibalism or some diabolical fane full of a million and one horrors... but Daniel bore a cocky, almost smug expression as he wheeled his bike across the dusty ground and dropped it unceremoniously where the swings had once swung.

"Come on. Don't worry. Nobody really comes here anymore, anyway."

Reid nodded uneasily and followed silently. Dropped his bike next to his friend's and scampered over to where Daniel was sitting on pebbles which smelled faintly of stale urine, leaning against the wooden support beams of the tire swing. The older boy pulled his mask off and stared with glassy eyes at the darkening sky, his pillow case of candy sitting on his stomach like some strange new paunch. Reid sank to the pebbles (looking uselessly for a place to sit that wasn't littered with butts and finding nothing) and pulled his own mask off, wiping at his sweaty face and looking to the older boy for direction.

Daniel pulled out the cigarettes again and flicked one at Reid without comment. Reid picked it up off the night-dewy ground and stared at it sourly, sighed, and stuck the smoke between his lips without complaint. Daniel did the same and pulled a small bic lighter from his pocket. He lit his cigarette, cupping one hand around the end to ward off the evening draft before tossing the lighter to Reid. Reid nodded his thanks and lit his own cigarette, inhaling awkwardly and sputtering out noxious fumes. Daniel giggled and inhaled thoughtfully on his own cigarette with an expression on his face that struck Reid as humorous in its transcendent peacefulness.

When they were done the smokes and had tossed the smoldering butts onto the ground to join their ascendants, Daniel pulled a silver flask out of his pocket and unscrewed the cap. Reid's eyes narrowed sullenly.

"Gideon said no alcohol..." Reid started, and Daniel held up a hand, looking strangely like a little orator.

"What he actually said, if you'll remember, was no beer. This isn't beer. This is Jack Daniels." The older boy held the flask over to Reid with shining, mischievous eyes. "Besides, we aren't going to get drunk or anythng. Just have a few shots each and shoot the shit. Eat some candy. Be home by nine just like your dad said."

"I don't know..." Reid warbled, but he took the flask anyway and raised it to his lips. He gulped quickly, coughed, wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve and made a disgusted face. Daniel laughed at his reaction and reclaimed the whiskey without comment.

Reid dug into his pillowcase and pulled out a bag of candy corn and began to chew quickly. He'd just smoked and he'd just drank and he was pretty sure Gideon wouldn't have approved of either action. A tiny flame of guilt was building in his stomach. Barely there, but there enough to be consciously noticed, and maybe candy corn could quench that flame before it got any bigger.

"You've been quieter lately. And you look like shit, man. What's going on with you?" Daniel's cool, smooth voice stole into Reid's awareness effortlessly.

"Nothing is wrong with me."

"Don't give me that shit," Daniel said, sounding mildly annoyed at being so obviously lied to. To show his disgust he pulled his head back and hawked a killer loogie clean over Spencer Reid's bowed head. Reid sighed and looked down at his hands. Small and young and yet, so old and so capable and so ancient, the life lines engraved deep like wood grain or cracks in stone. Life was weird like that. The paradoxes that made up the world could drive almost anyone completely froot loops if you spent too long mentally tinkering with them.

"You're paler than usual and you have dark circles under your eyes. Sometimes your hands shake... I've seen it, so tell me what's up. I'm your friend." Daniel's voice had turned soothing, deeply understanding. The older boy pulled another cigarette from his breast pocket and nervously lit up, as if he were aware that whatever he'd stumbled into was stuff probably best left untouched and undisturbed.

Daniel Crane's father was a big fan of the old adage: _Let Sleeping Dogs Lie_, but in Daniel's mind the dogs were never dogs at all. They might look like dogs at first but all too often they turned out to be monsters in canine form, hungry and ugly and insatiably crazed with hate. Still, there was something about poking those sleeping dogs (or monsters, or what have you) with sticks which was almost necessary. People liked to crack open casket lids and look at train wrecks and there was always the vicarious thrill of reading about another's misfortune (hell, entire movie and book genres existed just so others could vicariously live through Hell itself) and always the accompanying pang of smug victory: Better him than me.

"I care about you man, and I know something is eating at you. So what's up?"

Reid sighed loudly and decided that maybe that flask wasn't the worst idea Daniel had ever come up with after all. He held out his hand and flipped his fingers in the universal gesture of "gimme" and Daniel nodded in understanding and handed the alcohol back. Reid took it and took another gulp of the liquid which both sickened him and warmed his gullet like fire.

"You probably figured out Gideon isn't my real Dad, right?" Reid's voice was a little uneasy. Admitting such a thing out-loud almost sounded blasphemous and cruel. Daniel nodded soberly.

"I figured as much. You don't look like him and he acts the way my Uncle Brady does with me when my Dad is on a bender. Really nice and easy to know, but not... he doesn't act like a Dad does." Daniel sighed loudly and turned back to Reid, indicating that the younger boy should continue.

"He...Gideon, I mean...he's my foster father. The stuff I told you about him working for the FBI is all true though. He's just on a break right now, cause he's looking after me. My real Dad has...he has _problems_." Reid stared at his keds and sucked on a piece of candy corn dispassionately. Already the whiskey was infiltrating his central nervous system and making all of this junk easier to voice aloud.

"What about your Mom? Why don't you live with her?" Daniel was sitting cross legged now, leaning forward, body-language indicating his interest.

"She has problems too." Reid said sullenly before sighing loudly.

"What...what is wrong with your old man? It must be pretty bad if they took you away, huh?"

"He, you know... he used to hit me."

"Bad?" Daniel's voice had dropped a few octaves. Reid nodded numbly.

"That cast you were in when I first saw you around... he...he do that?"

Reid nodded again. There was a sour, unpleasant taste in his mouth now, as if something he thought had died long ago had instead been napping and had now decided to crawl up out of his intestines and park itself in the back of his throat. Reid gulped nervously and continued.

"That and a lot of other stuff. My mom... she can't take care of herself, so..."

"What's wrong with her, dude?"

"You know what schizophrenia is, right?" Reid's voice was very still, very quiet, as if the words were glass and if you spoke them too loudly they might shatter and dissolve in the night. Daniel blinked heavily and finally nodded.

"I mean. I think so. It's like when people think the government is spying on them through their television sets, shit like that?"

"That's... well... that's a Hollywood exaggeration. Can I have another smoke?" Reid's voice held bitter laughter in it. If only schizophrenia was the circus freak show Hollywood wanted it to be. That would be relatively easy to deal with, clean in its dimensions and ability to hurt. But real life wasn't Hollywood and diseases were much more insidious and gray. Sometimes diseases didn't even look like diseases at all, just like a crying mother who couldn't get out of bed for days and liked to keep all the shutters closed.

Daniel handed the younger boy a smoke and Reid lit it up, marvelling at the way the flame licked and curled around the tobacco. How beautiful and simple fire was, and yet, how destructive, if the opportunities were right.

"So you can't live with your Mom 'cause she's nutso and your Dad, he beats you...I get that. But... okay, so what's up with you lately? Gideon's treating you nice, ain't he?" Daniel's voice was getting sloppy with the sudden onslaught of alcohol, but a sudden strange anger was alight in the older boy's eyes.

"Gideon is fine. My father wants me back, and he might get me back. I have to go to court and talk about him and what life was like back at home, and if I don't do a good enough job, then maybe they'll send me back to him. Whatever happens, I don't think Gideon can keep me forever because courts favour family reunification and my Mom is pretty sane and normal when she takes her pills... _when she takes them_." Reid dug the toe of his left ked into the pebbles furiously. "The problem is she never takes them for long. Even when the courts say she has to. My Dad is trying to say she beat me, not him, and because she is schizophrenic and most people don't really understand what that means, they are scared. It creates what Hotch calls reasonable doubt."

"What about what you say? If you say he did it? How can they argue with that?"

"They can say my mother threatened me, or I am confused, or something." Reid stared morosely at the pebbles and kicked some with his foot. The pebbles went flying. "It's not fair."

"So you could go back to him, maybe. That's what has you bummed." It wasn't a question. Reid nodded silently and took a deep drag on the cigarette, watching with mild drunken amusement as the end turned a bright neon orange and then sank back into a dull red-pink again. He watched the gray-blue smoke tendrils curl and disappear into the bruised-purple night and when he glanced over at Daniel, he found Daniel's blue, cat-like eyes focused on him like lasers, as if the older boy was trying to come to some important and potentially life-changing decision. Finally Daniel nodded to himself, as if whatever internal dialogue he'd been having with himself had been resolved.

"You know, my Dad...he sometimes wails on me too, you know. Probably not as bad as yours. But he does sometimes. You ever think about just running away?" Daniel's voice was soft, introspective. Reid glanced over at his friend with haunted and compassionate eyes. Shrugged softly.

"I used to. But where would I go?" Reid finally admitted. "I mean... on the streets. What would I do? You know what I would do. If I didn't get picked up by the cops and sent right back home, I mean."

Daniel was looking thoughtfully at the oncoming night with a still resolute sadness. "My mother, she was a bitch, man. She got sick of my Dad pounding on her so one day I woke up and she was gone. She packed her bags and left in the night. What a bitch, huh?"

Reid winced inwardly and nodded. "How old were you?"

"Five. Six. Something like that. I don't give a shit anymore, anyway. She was a bitch and I am better off without her. Can't say I blame her though. I'd ditch my old man in a heartbeat if I had anywhere to go."

Reid watched Daniel thoughtfully. Finally opened his mouth.

"You know, maybe you could tell Gideon about your Dad, and him, you know... how he hits you. He might be able to help." Reid kept his eyes on his shoes.

"I just told you it wasn't that bad, didn't I?" Daniel's voice was suddenly shrill, scared. "No need to tell Gideon. It ain't a big deal. I was just letting you know you're not the only kid that gets wailed on, is all. Anyway, what is Gideon going to do, really? He says anything to anyone, my old man might not let us hang out anymore and nothing else will change. Gideon can't even make sure you stay safe, much as he wants to. I mean, if the courts make you go back to your old man, what's he going to do? _Kidnap_ you? I'll tell you what he'll do. For all the toys and games and nice clothes and attention he gives you, he'll do what the law says and give you back to your old man if that's what they tell him to do. And you know he will. What else can he do?" Daniel suddenly stopped ranting and snickered angrily. The entire situation seemed hopeless. Reid knew in that instant that Daniel's father was a lot worse than Daniel himself had alluded to, and that his friend had spent dozens, if not hundreds, of solitary tortured hours thinking of ways to escape. To no avail.

Reid thought about this, and his own situation, and the feeling that had been developing in his stomach like a boa lunching on his intestines seemed to intensify. Reid took another drag on his cigarette. The cigarette tasted horrible but the idea that it was full of poisons seemed mildly enticing now.

"He won't be able to do Jack Shit, is what." Daniel looked at Reid, eyes burning with anger and sadness and hurt. He spit on the ground. "And don't you dare tell your foster father what I said. I'll just deny it, you better believe it. I know better than to screw around like that. And we won't be friends anymore, either."

"What are you talking about?" Reid passed the cigarette to Daniel like a peace offering. The older boy took it, nodded slightly, and inhaled. The end festered neon orange in the growing gloom again.

"I had a friend whose Mom used to beat the crap out of him. The Child Protection people took him away and I never saw him again, but we wrote letters for a while and he said his new foster parents were even worse than his real mother, but wouldn't say how. I'm not playing that game, no sir." Daniel looked darkly up at the sky, as if daring God to strike him down lest he lie.

"You believe in God, Reid?" The earlier mischief and joy had drained out of those two haunted blue eyes and had been replaced with anger and pain. Let sleeping dogs lie, indeed.

"I don't know. I try not to think about it. I don't see what difference it makes in the long run anyway and..."

"I sure don't." Daniel said this venomously and got up, wiped his ass off and dusted off his jacket. He handed the cigarette back to Reid silently and spit on the ground again. Walked over to the old, barren swings and gazed at the poles, clinked the scarred metal with his thumb nail and grimaced at the hollow, ancient noise that pelted back at both of them.

"My mom, she used to push me on this damn swing set when I was a kid. She's gone now. These swings are gone now, too." The flask of Jack Daniels reappeared and its owner took a long, greedy swig. Reid nodded, but he wasn't quite sure he got the meaning in that last cryptic comment.

"I can see know why you're bummed out now. I say; if they make you go back, you run. Or..." Daniel trailed off, looking suddenly uneasy. Ashamed almost.

"Or _what_..."

"Your Dad, he almost killed you. That's why they took you away, huh?"

Reid stared at his feet again. His cheeks felt unbearably hot but his stomach and bowels felt icy. His blood felt icy and like it might never warm up again. Finally he nodded. He knew Daniel already knew the truth.

"If they send you back and he wails on you again like before, he might kill you next time. Or the time after that. Or after that. You know? Even if he doesn't, by the time you're grown, what'll _you_ be like? Maybe just exactly like _him_." Daniel's voice had dropped low and conspiratorial. But Spencer Reid knew what he was talking about. He knew and dreamt about that specific horrific future in blazing neon colours and in surround sound. He knew, oh boy did he _know_. Reid nodded sullenly, face twisting in anguish.

"I figure if they send you back, and you can't or you're not able to run away, you do what the old spies did when they were captured by the enemy. If that's your only option I mean. That's what I would do."

Reid ran the statement through his head and found that it would not compute. He had no idea what Daniel Crane was speaking about in such low, hushed tones. Daniel sighed and reclaimed the stub of cigarette from Reid and stamped it out under his foot angrily. Removed another cigarette and lit it and passed it back to Reid gently.

"If you can't get away and there is no other way..._only if there is no other way_...if you soak a whole box of cigarettes in a cup of water overnight, and then, you drink what is left over, that's one way. Bad way, but it'll work. There are better ways but..."

Reid stared over at Daniel and suddenly what his friend was telling him in such a livid, tired tone of voice made perfect, startling sense. The neurons were firing and the meaning was clear. Reid stared, horrified.

Daniel was talking about suicide.

Reid licked his lips nervously and blinked. Suddenly he wanted nothing more than to get home to Gideon's, to get a long hot shower and crawl into bed and forget about this discussion and the reality that had necessitated it. Daniel noticed the change on his friend's features, the realization and horror and wildfire despair and softened his tone. Put one weary, callused hand on Reid's shoulder and squeezed gently.

"Don't freak dude. I used to be just like you. I just meant, if things get too bad...if you're ever really stuck."

"I know what you meant." Reid said simply. His words sounded hollow and far away even to his own ears. Eerily dispassionate.

"You want another shot of the whiskey?" Daniel was trying to make up. He had unintentionally upset his friend, and he felt bad. Reid shrugged indifferently, but took the flask and drank greedily, like a man dying of thirst. This time the taste didn't bother him and he barely noticed the way the alcohol burned in his belly. Daniel glanced down at his watch.

"It's only a little after 8, man. Want to do more trick-or-treating?"

Reid pulled his mask back into place and shrugged. He didn't really feel like knocking on doors for candy anymore, but he didn't want to go home in this mood. Gideon would instantly know something was up and pry it out of him with his profiler's comments and smooth, concerned looks. And Reid didn't think he could handle that right now.

"Sure."

"I didn't mean to bum you out Reid. I just wanted you to know I sort of know what it's like."

"Yeah. Don't worry about it. It's fine."

Except it wasn't fine. Nothing had been fine in the deep and dark recesses of Spencer Reid's brain for a long time now but Daniel's comments had hardened and gelled that unease and worry into something truly terrifying. Because, at the heart of the older boy's comments, was the truth.

Just what could Gideon do to keep him safe if his father "won" him back like a stuffed animal at the county fair, fair and square, boys and girls... _Step right up, test your luck and win a prize. Go to court and get yer kid back!_

Daniel was right. Gideon wouldn't be able to keep him safe, not really, not unconditionally safe the way Reid liked to pretend he could. He'd try of course; Reid had no doubt of that. He'd appeal and get Rossi to help and Reid also knew Hotch would work his tail off to advocate for "the boy", but at the end of the day, if William Reid was the one holding all the cards, what could any of them really do but fold? Daniel was right. And running away... It had been buzzing around in the back of the young genius's brain as a last-ditch resort like an angry, solitary wasp. _If things got really bad, if he absolutely had to, he could always run away._ That had been the solitary thought, never given too much attention to, of course, because giving it attention would have exposed all the holes in that plan. Run away, suuuure. But go where? Reid knew there was nowhere to go but Daniel had said what he'd always known out-loud, and saying things out-loud somehow made them more real. And the idea of going to any of the seedy places that would take in a runaway ten year old were almost as scary as going home in their own sick, vile way. Daniel was right. Running away wasn't much of an option either. There was a reason so few kids ran from abusive parents. There simply was nowhere to go.

Worse than the possibility of going home, though, was Daniel's other concern; that Reid, if subjected to his father long enough, might _become like him_. That thought was terrifying and smothering. Running and fearing his father was bad enough, but the very concept of turning in to the next generation of William Reid itself was nauseatingly scary. And probable. Reid knew better than most adults the stats on child abuse and how abuse was multi-generational.

Daniel's hand clapped him on the back.

"I know some older kids; they say you can go to California if things get tough. Sleep on the beaches and stuff. Better than other places. At least it doesn't get cold in the winter. If things don't work out here, I mean."

Reid sniffed loudly and nodded. Knew that wasn't an option either, but appreciated the attempt to raise his spirits.

"Let's go get more candy, dude. I still got a few more shots each of the whiskey and a good three smokes each. And I know some good houses. They give out full-size chocolate bars every year..."

Reid nodded dully again and waited while Daniel pulled his own mask back on and secured his fedora. But instead of hearing his friend's last comment about whiskey and chocolate bars, what Reid heard was the earlier, claustrophobic and terribly adult idea: _I figure if they send you back, and you can't or you're not able to run away, you do what the old spies did when they were captured by the enemy. If that's your only option I mean. That's what I would do._

Reid straddled his BMX and followed his friend out of the park along Kirkland lane and back to the land of sanity. Kids were still out, but in the last 30 minutes most of the younger ones had been replaced by older ghouls, darting and running, rolls of toilet paper crunched in their arm pits. The ammo of childhood pranksters. How silly it all seemed now. All of it.

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**Please review!** This chapter was a bit hard to write (especially as I am trying to ditch booze and smokes myself right now). I know it is shorter than most. This story is winding down but there are still a couple good chapters coming yet.


	41. Chapter 41: Gone

**Title:** Losing My Religion by Lexikal (Chapter Forty one)

**Rating:** M for graphic violence against a child and language (in the first chapter, chapter 8 and chapter 10 so far. Chapter 28 has Reid discussing specific acts of abuse but not at length.)

**Fandom:** Criminal Minds

**Summary:** Spencer Reid, 10, is removed from his father's "care" after being violently attacked and is fostered by his old mentor, Jason Gideon. This is a sequel to "That's me in the corner". Features child abuse, do not read if underage.

**Author's Note: **Okay, life got super busy (almost a year later I cough something out? I am so sorry guys!) I actually do not have a computer of my own right now and am not sure how much longer I will have the one I am currently borrowing, so the upcoming chapters might be a little less polished than you are used to, but since I have this 'puter I am going to try and get this thing done. I need to basically re-read this story because it is pretty detailed, but I am hoping to get a chapter out in the next 48 hours (Tuesday, November 20th, 2012). I figure something mediocre is better than continuing to let this poor creature hang with her tongue lolling out.

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"The only paradise is the paradise we've lost." –Proust

Gideon watched his young charge silently. They'd come home an hour early, at 8, and retreated to Reid's room to "trade" candy and there had been hushed, young voices far too serious and intense for post-trick-or-treat revelry leaking into the hall ever since. Gideon had decided to let them have their space, had decided not to mother-hen the kid, but after an hour of relative sanity the little red warning light that had been lit following Reid's "sugar crash" earlier in the day was blinking in Jason Gideon's brain like a pulse. The "warning light" started with a tension headache, which wasn't relieved by the usual strong homemade cappuccino the profiler had always known to work like magic on such neurological beasts and by the time he was ready for a second cup, he knew in his gut that the problem wasn't a headache. He had always been a man of logic, Jason Gideon- intelligent with thoughts clean and orderly as grids of Sudoku puzzles… but his gut had never steered him wrong.

He stopped outside Reid's door and knocked. There was a sudden break off of talk, hushed murmurs.

"You guys okay? You've been in there an hour?"

"We're sorting candy," Reid said through the door, and Gideon took that as permission to open said door. Sure enough, Reid and Daniel were sitting Indian-style with piles of candy around them: strange and artificial, but decidedly colorful, post-modern mandalas.

Gideon raised his eyebrows in mock appreciation.

"That's a lot of candy. Quite a lot of candy- can I have a piece?"

Reid nodded soberly and motioned to the pile closest to his guardian.

Yup. Something was wrong. Gone was the ebullient little boy of that morning, replaced was an artificial happy child ™, one size fits all. Reid had a smile plastered on his face, the kind of smile you might tack up on yourself when someone presents you with a gift you know you will return or when a little kid does something funny that is also personally expensive. A fake smile, a decidedly tired mask. Daniel looked a bit hazy himself, a smudge of brown milk chocolate on one cheek, a Charleston Chew hanging from his lips like some new breed of asp straight out of the wilds of Oompa-Loompa land.

"So… did you guys have fun?" Gideon prodded. He grabbed a Kit Kat out of the proffered mound of goodies and slowly peeled off the wrapper. Reid nodded and, as if to prove what a great time he'd had, stuffed another piece of candy into his mouth. Chewed. Swallowed. Smiled. His eyes were at half mast. He was unwrapping a pair of red vines when Gideon spoke.

"You guys are home early. I thought you wanted to stay out late?"

Why was it suddenly so difficult to speak to the kid? It was as if they'd been replaced with pod people, both of them, physically identical but emotionally stilted doppelgangers. Gideon eyed Daniel, who had peeled off his costume (except for the Fedora) and changed into what were obviously used as pyjamas: a raggy Metallica t-shirt and purple sweat pants. Daniel made eye contact and something flashed over those eyes and was gone, almost as if it had never been, but before it had gone… Gideon was sure he'd seen… what had been there? Not fear. Not despair? Resignation. The profiler knew then that Reid had opened up to his friend, had shared at least a little bit about his life "at home" in Vegas, and whatever he had shared had been accepted rather well. Which meant… which had to mean…

That maybe Daniel Crane and Spencer Reid shared more than just their precocious vocabularies and love of anthropomorphized turtles.

Of course, without proof or even more than that hazy hunch there was not much to go on, not much to say. Gideon took another piece of candy and caught Reid's eyes on him, wary and warm and loving all at once. Reid nodded. Swallowed whatever he'd been chewing.

"Just don't eat all my Kit Kats, Gideon." Reid said. Gideon nodded and snagged another Kit Kat.

"You guys want to come out to the living room? TV Guide says there are a few movies on."

"Which ones?" That was Daniel, sitting up slightly, reminding Gideon ever so slightly of a baby meerkat.

"Charlie Brown and the Great Pumpkin or something?"

"That movie sucks."

"Well maybe there is something else on? It's only a little after 9. Why don't you come check the guide yourself?"

Daniel and Reid exchanged a look. Reid nodded.

"Yeah. We just have to bring our candy. We'll be there in a minute."

Jason Gideon could take a hint. He stood up, brushed off his chinos and smiled broadly. Turned to leave.

"What are you doing?" Reid called after him. The inquiry was a bit perfunctory, as if to reassure his foster father that he was engaging normally. Still, Gideon decided to reward the effort.

"Going to make some more coffee."

"Can I h-" Reid started, voice rising for the first time in hours with true emotion.

"No," Gideon enforced, halfway down the hall. "By the time you finish eating whatever you plan on eating I am already going to have to peel you off the ceiling with a spatula."

"I will give you some coffee crisps for some actual coffee?" Reid hollered. Gideon could hear movement coming from the direction of the kid's room now. Life. He sighed.

"I said no, Reid…"

There was a squawking noise, some comment about peanut butter rice krispie squares being soggy from Daniel, then an electronic motor whirring to life. The sound of some other battery operated toy being turned on.

"3 coffee crisps and 2 kit kats for one cup of coffee if you're going to be that difficult…" Reid announced grandly

It was funny how the kid bounced back.

* * *

Because nothing else started until 10, they watched Charlie Brown, despite Daniel's objections and Reid's maturely rolled eyes. Yet, strangely, when Gideon stole glances from the corner of his eye, they were closer and closer to the blue glow of the screen by the minute. There were even some smiles, despite the inane plot and childish animation.

And at 10 they could put on their strange tale of zombie animals a la the genius of Stephen King- something about pets and cemeteries- and quit being "babies".

* * *

It was in the dead of the night, somewhere around 3 in the morning when Gideon awoke with a strange, tight feeling in his chest. He gasped and exhaled and the tightness seemed to dissipate but in his gut was a feeling… stronger, pulsing… to check on Reid. He'd left them half way through their movie (a grotesquely deformed woman with a spine that seemed ready to rip through her flesh was contorted on a bed and yelling "Rachellll! Rachellllll!" in an altogether disturbing shriek) and gone to bed after being given promises that the television's volume would not be raised to plaster-cracking levels. Reid had nodded and Daniel had ignored him but shoveled another handful of Crunch n' Munch, liberated from the pantry, into his mouth. In the short time they'd been in front of the television the area was populated with glasses half full of lime kool aid, candy wrappers, errant pieces of popped corn, what looked like rub-on tattoos…

"I'm going to bed guys. The volume… low. I hear screaming or howling or zombies or anything upstairs and I come down, and the TV goes off and the candy goes away. And brush your teeth before you go to sleep."

"Shhhhhh!" Daniel had hissed back, flapping his hand frantically in the universal gesture for "silence". Gideon sighed, shook his head, thought back to his childhood days and the way his eyes had bugged out watching Hammer films.

"Okay, don't say I didn't warn you…" Gideon sighed tiredly, loping out of the room and dragging a tired hand over his stubble. He'd shave in the morning. He was half way up the stairs when he felt small hands wrap around his midsection. Reid. Reid was hugging him. He turned around and smiled. Reid's face was ghostly in the blue-gray gloom.

"You okay buddy?" Gideon pitched his voice low, full aware that Reid had chosen to hug him out of view of his friend. Reid's eyes were shining. Reid's chin twitched, his eyes squinted up behind his glasses. He let out a low sigh and hugged Gideon again.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"Okay. Good. You go have fun with Daniel. Don't eat too much candy."

Reid nodded. Gideon had started back up the stairs, aware of the youngster's eyes on his back.

"Reid?"

"I'm fine. Thank you for everything. I know I seem kind of quiet tonight, but I am just tired. Thank you. For everything." This was hissed in a whisper.

"Okay. That's good." Gideon didn't entirely buy Reid's explanation but for tonight? Right now? It sufficed. Reid wasn't going anywhere.

He was at the top of the stairs when he heard, not much louder than a whisper at the bottom; "I love you, Gideon."

"Love you too, Buddy."

And with that the profiler had retired to his bedroom, and fallen into bed and fallen into grey, hazy sleep almost immediately and slept soundly... until awakening. The alarm clock read 3:04. The room was India ink murky and swirls of gray and blue danced and swirled through his vision as his imagination tried to provide images where lack of light left nothing.

But the taste in his mouth, the tightness, the feeling… a horrible, too-late feeling, of something precious slipping away, a dream or a memory.

He was out of bed, not thinking, running on pure gut instinct. Down the stairs two at a time, and there, in front of the television… he felt better for only the slightest of seconds before processing the fact that there, on the floor, only Daniel lay swaddled half in and half out of his sleeping bag amongst the candy wrappers. There was no Reid in the living room.

Eyes still adjusting, Gideon swore under his breath. His logical mind was presenting him with scenarios… Reid was in the bathroom. He had gotten tired of sleeping in the living room and had gone to his own bedroom. But his gut… Gideon's gut knotted hard and tight and threatened to strangle him.

Reid's room was too bright when Gideon jerked the lights on, the bed was made, everything much as it had been left. Except for Reid's backpack. That was gone. And… the clothes in the closet. Half of them were gone. Jason Gideon's mind whirled. Was this a prank? No. Pranks were April 1st, and besides, Reid would never do that to him, never prank him, would never think to try something so stupid…

"_REID?!"_ he hollered, not caring that it wasn't logical, that he hadn't checked the downstairs bathroom or the kitchen, not caring one tiny little bit that he could hear Daniel yelp to attention, cry out groggily.

_"What's going on?"_

Because his gut already knew. His gut had known since Reid had gotten back in the car after his excursion at the academy, had known on some gut-deep level since the kid had come back from trick or treating with the faintest whiff of forbidden cigarette smoke on his breath, and under that… the harsh aroma of liquor exhaled, eyes different in a way that was so subtle most might have missed it, and yet significantly, profoundly altered…

Reid was gone.

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Okay, so I hope that suffices at least for a few days. This particular story is drawing near a close, at long last. And I really want to get at least this one day before I lose access to a computer. Please review if you are new. And if you are a long-time reader, once again. I am really sorry for the massive delay.


	42. Chapter 42: Runaway

**Title:** Losing My Religion by Lexikal (Chapter forty two)

**Rating:** M for graphic violence against a child and language (in the first chapter, chapter 8 and chapter 10 so far. Chapter 28 has Reid discussing specific acts of abuse but not at length.)

**Fandom:** Criminal Minds

**Summary:** Spencer Reid, 10, is removed from his father's "care" after being violently attacked and is fostered by his old mentor, Jason Gideon. This is a sequel to "That's me in the corner". Features child abuse, do not read if underage.

**Author's Note: **Hopefully I will get this story done before Christmas. Please continue to review. I do try to do my homework when writing (for instance, consulting the official FBI website for information about how agents behave "in real life", etc. In addition to the FBI FAQ page (found here: .gov/about-us/faqs ) I also got a little bit of information from this page:  Deep_  Sometimes I'll spend an hour or two researching stuff and all that shows up in the fic is maybe a line or two… if that. I can get derailed reading. I have written Gideon's service weapon as being a SIG Sauer 226, which it very well could have been if Gideon was a "real person". As for the show, I know I have looked it up before, but I can't remember… ah damn.. okay… sure enough, Gideon had a SIG Sauer P226 on CM (2005-2007), at least according to the Internet Movie Firearms database. Here you go: wiki/SIG-Sauer_P220_pistol_series

* * *

"Each Man is the architect of his own fate." – Appius Claudius

Reid's legs were cramping, burning. His eyes felt dry and hot, his face numb and prickly. He'd been biking in a sheer frenzy for close to three hours and his leg was screaming at him, but the pain grounded him, made him smile. It had been shattered not long ago and he knew pushing it like this was bound to be unhealthy, and yet the slow, plodding frenzy building in his blood was upon him now in slow, cautious waves obscuring all thought of "lesser things". Pain was a "lesser thing". Long term physical survival was the only real important goal now. Something about the pain, the sharp screaming blistering ache that pulsed in his nerves where the bone had been shattered and only recently re-set seemed pure, seemed justified and noble. He had left Gideon. He had run away. He was a run-away. _Runaway_.

He hadn't run from Gideon. He hadn't left Gideon. He had bolted, not from Gideon, but from what loomed on the horizon like the shadow of a nocturnal beast he'd thought he'd forgotten, what had only been delayed when Gideon had taken him under his wing and sought to protect him. What loomed was a monster, a shadow, his true self inverted: his father. His maker, half of his one true God. His destroyer, just as surely. His leg screamed and he laughed through the heavy keening breathing of his lungs, until the world started to break up all grey and fuzzy. Reid stopped peddling and let himself coast to the side of the highway. He only had the faintest idea where he was. He was biking west. He would bike from Gideon's refuge (although it was a mirage, like every other hope of safety in his life had been up until this very moment), he would head west until he hit Nevada, then on to California. All the way to the blue-grey-green waves of the Pacific ocean. Then he would stop.

Maybe.

Spencer Reid had been thinking of running away since he was tiny, for more than half his short life, but always in a rather defeated way. It had been a pipe dream, running away, the desire to be free, almost as unattainable and otiose as dreams of flight unaided. His brain had always defeated him before he got his keds on and was anywhere near the door. But then he had come to live with Gideon and had seen that life didn't have to be a nightmare. There were good people in the world, people that loved him. If he could hold on till adulthood, he had a shot at life that was his, that wasn't about merely running away, physically or mentally, from a monster. But he'd also known that he wasn't merely his father's child; he was his father's _property_. His father had beaten that knowledge into him not long after his first tentative breath and the state and federal bodies that had attempted to protect him were worse than useless, existing only as straw men of protection. And his father- narcissistic, enraged, possessive- would fight tooth and nail for him, because Reid wasn't just his son, he was an idea. He represented William Reid's inherent power, his ability to dominate, to control, to own life itself. And he, William Reid, would self-destruct before he let his son disappear, but Reid also knew his father would win long before he self-destructed. He would win, because the odds were in his favor, and had always been in his favor. For all the liberal, progressive coffee klatch chit chat to the contrary, children were still considered chattel, they were still property, and killing one was still permissible, if not openly embraced.

Gideon wouldn't be able to help. He would try, might even try his damndest, but in the end, if some Judge Reid had never met decided that he- Spencer Reid- was "better off" with his father, well… that is what would happen. And Gideon, a federal intelligence agent, a BSU criminal profiler, would be forced to relinquish his foster son. He wouldn't have a choice. Reid, at that point, wouldn't have a choice. He would be handed over like a pig being taken to the slaughter. Down the slaughter chute back to Dah-deeee. And that would be that.

Spencer Reid had decided he couldn't let that scenario become reality. Not only could he not go back to living that torturous existence, he wouldn't put Gideon in the position of being forced to sacrifice him. He would simply leave. Take control of his own life for once. Free Gideon from this burden, free himself from whatever miserable fate had surely awaited him just a few short hours ago. It was scary, because it was new, and because it would be harder to survive now, but it was also exhilarating, taking control, taking up the reins of this horse called Fate.

He was bright. More than bright. A genius. IQ hovering somewhere beyond the dark side of the moon. Small, tiny, chronologically challenged some might say; a child… but a _genius_. Genius had to mean something. Genius had to be of some use in this world. History was full of remarkable people who had fought tooth and nail for their right to exist, to be happy, to be safe… who had clung desperately to their dreams of liberty and autonomy, and who had made it despite the odds. Who had survived.

So why was he, Spencer Reid, any different?

He wasn't.

Reid stood over the crossbar of his bike on the shoulder of the pitch black highway, eyes shut, and thought these thoughts while his heart hammered and the forceful gasping of his lungs returned to something resembling a normal breathing pattern.

"It matters not how straight the gate, how charged with punishments… the scroll," His voice was tired but resolute, alone and yet not lonely, keeping him company on the edge of the tar-black highway. He licked his lips, exhaled tiredly but forcefully. Turned his root-beer-colored eyes up to the early morning sky. Embraced the stars. Gideon hadn't been his savior, but his friend. His mentor, but not his savior. It hadn't been fair to Gideon to put him in that position. Only he, Spencer Reid, could save himself.

"I am the master of my fate, I am the Captain of my soul." Reid dismounted his bike and let it drop.

He'd left without leaving Gideon a note or a letter or an explanation, because really, what would he be able to say that wasn't already obvious? All his planning had ever done before was scare him. You could plan and plan and plan and… never get anywhere. He would go west, he would head toward the sea, but he would also adapt. He would have to adapt now, on his own, on the road and on the run. Maybe go to Canada. Could they touch him in Canada? Would they ever even find him? Maybe head toward California, then bike or hitch hike up the coastline. Get over the border somehow. Go to Vancouver? Apparently, it never got really cold there. Not cold enough to kill, at any rate. And another country… it seemed safer, somehow. But California was also an option. Head to L.A., disappear. Thousands of kids, of runaways, went there. He would have company. Maybe go to Disney Land, get a job as one of the seven dwarves or something. Life was full of possibilities.

Reid was on interstate 395, apparently, and the only reason the boy hadn't already been hit by a car was because it was 2 something in the morning and the traffic was relatively light. Reid dropped his bike onto the shoulder of the highway, picked it back up and walked it out of sight of any oncoming headlight beams. Let it rest beneath a copse of trees. He sat down and fumbled in the relative dark, pulled off his backpack and pulled out a flashlight. Pulled out his maps. 5 miles ahead, more or less, was a trucker's stop. He could get there fairly quick, dismount the bike before he got near, before any witnesses saw him (he had forced himself to start thinking of himself as a fugitive the minute he'd stepped foot through Gideon's front door an hour and a half earlier) and walk the rest of the way. Hitch a ride going west. In his backpack was 197 dollars and 23 cents in cash he'd managed to save up since coming to live with Gideon. Oh yeah, and he'd swiped 40 dollars in tens out of Gideon's wallet earlier in the evening. Might be enough to bribe a trucker for taking him part of the way. But he'd play it smart, be a stow-away, if that was possible. Save his money and stay out of sight. He'd loaded up on 3 boxes of pop tarts, 2 of fruit roll ups, 5 cans of Pepsi. Chocolate bars and candy from trick or treating, 2 cans of something called "Ensure" he'd found growing dust in Gideon's pantry. 5 plastic-wrapped "hot-rods" on the off chance he grew sick of sugar (the factory-farmed cows would forgive him for this one time lapse in morality). Flintstones chewable vitamins. 1 additional pair of sweat pants, 2 t-shirts, 4 pairs of briefs, 5 pairs of socks, band-aids, Neosporin, a compass, AA batteries, a battery powered radio. His flashlight. A few polaroids of him and Danny and Gideon and Hotch and the life that had been his, if only for a few short months. And under all that crap, a gun belonging to Gideon he had liberated from a locked lockbox with the aid of a paperclip and a screwdriver. Some bullets he had found carefully hidden in Gideon's office, gleaming in the unlit gloom like lethal Easter eggs.

Reid shoveled the map back into his backpack. Pulled out a can of Pepsi and a foil wrapped pop tart and refueled. He already had a few different stories to tell anybody who caught him trying to hitchhike and became unduly curious. His Dad had paid him money to take the bus back home to L.A. to see his Mom, but he had lost the money and his Dad was a trucker, so he couldn't phone him. His Mom didn't have a phone. That was one story. There were several versions.

"I am the master of my fate, I am the Captain of my soul." Reid's voice was young but solid, sturdy and alive in the cool ether of the terribly early morning. He had never felt so strong, and yet so unsure. It was a wild, exhilarating, terrifying, exciting utterly-alive feeling and the only sockdolager dulling that adrenaline high at all was the growing, nagging ache that Gideon was going to take this personally, was going to freak out and get upset.

But Gideon was smart. He would figure it out. He would understand. He would _have_ to understand. He was a BSU profiler, he knew what violence did to people, knew first hand how hard humans fought to survive when faced with violence, with death. How they would run for days on broken legs, how they would tramp through the underbrush of the buzzing jungles of Vietnam holding their intestines in their hands like strange and gruesome babies of war, already deadly ill from blood loss and shock and infection and hours from dropping permanently, and yet they would walk and they would hold their innards and sometimes, _sometimes_, those soldiers cradling their own viscera would make it to medics and would be operated on and have their insides put back where they belonged and would be injected with antibiotics and obsessively prayed over and… _sometimes they made it_. People ate other people to survive, they cut off their limbs to the music of their own crazed screams to survive, and clawed at lids and doors and fences until their nails broke off… all to survive. The fight for survival was a sovereign right of existence. Those desperate, determined souls clinging to their own physical survival weren't always triumphant but those who didn't try at all? They almost never lived. And justly so. Evolution was a harsh teacher; she didn't hand out gold stars easily, but she also didn't play favorites.

Gideon wouldn't take it personally. He might be upset-_ in fact, who was he kidding?- _Reid knew his ex-foster father would be upset, it was unavoidable. But it would be okay in the end. He'd get to L.A… or maybe to Canada, and he'd write Gideon a post card and tell him not to worry. And eventually Gideon would see that he, one Spencer Reid, had made the only sane decision it was possible to make in this scenario, in this time in history when kids could be and regularly were returned like defective merchandise to parents whose only real interest was hitting and screaming and sometimes killing. And Gideon would understand why he had split. But most importantly? He, Spencer Reid, aged ten years and a handful of precious days, would still be alive. He'd see his 18th birthday, and then he'd be free from the oppressive manacles of childhood.

"Don't worry about me, Gideon," Reid told the starry sky above his head, hoping that his words, on some quantum level he nor science would ever be able to fully understand, would get back to Gideon, would soothe him, reassure him. "I am going to be okay. I am going to be _okay_. I love you. Thank you for everything. I am going to live."

* * *

The police arrived just after 4 a.m., lights off, no sirens. Daniel was fully awake, sitting on Gideon's living room couch, eyes wide and scared. Gideon had been on the phone directly after contacting the police. Alerting Hotch. Alerting Rossi. A 10 year old runaway wasn't BSU jurisdiction, of course, but Rossi had been just as shocked to hear the news. Hotchner was obviously surprised and worried, but held back.

"You're his lawyer… I wanted to tell you before the police get here. In case this impacts his case at all, I don't know, I didn't see this coming Aaron," Gideon told the young man quickly, trying to keep his voice steady. He was a BSU agent for chrissakes. Reid had bolted, that was all. That was all. Keep your shit together, Jason.

He had no doubt Reid would be found, safe and sound, and yet his stomach was knotted up and he felt surreal, as if time was moving jerkily, because on a very deep level he knew Reid hadn't run to make a point. Reid had run because he could see no other option. He hadn't been grounded, this wasn't for show, this wasn't the usual runaway scenario that, while irritating, usually resolved itself in a few hours when the kid in question got bored or tired or hungry and came home. If Reid had gone, he intended to stay gone.

Gideon forced a wad of sour saliva down his throat at the thought. His mouth felt dry. Reid's poignant words to his foster father just a few hours ago came back to Gideon, the look on Spencer's face in the dim light, the burning look in his eyes. His words, tentative, sad… and Gideon had assumed he was tired and stressed and scared, but nothing more. _Thanks for everything? I love you? _Something like that. Gideon winced and tried to remember the exact wording. Reid had been so serious and resolute, like a solider off to war, almost… why hadn't he seen this coming? He, Jason Gideon, was a profiler for chrissakes. Why hadn't he sensed Reid was more than just nervous? It was his job, his duty… Gideon exhaled. Every minute Reid wasn't here was a minute he was showing that he was serious, that the stress of everything had gotten to be too much. Even if they found him quickly, what would it do to the kid's mental health to be forcibly brought back, like a common criminal? He'd run because he was fearful. Fuck the system for not protecting him, fuck all this shit.

Hotch had said he'd come right over, despite Gideon's assurance that there was nothing the young lawyer could do.

"Well, I'll come over anyway. You phoned the police? Considering that you are a foster parent of a child with a significant abuse history, I think I should be there."

"It's only half past 3 in the morning, Aaron and…"

"I can be there in 20 minutes," Hotch said resolutely, before hanging up the phone. Gideon stared at the phone dumbly before putting it back in its cradle. Daniel had been sitting rigidly on Gideon's couch since Gideon had come downstairs and discovered Reid was gone, face pale and drawn, eyes fearful.

"Daniel…" Gideon began, his brown eyes intense. He came over to the couch and sat down next to Reid's friend. Turned to look at him.

"Did Reid say anything to you last night? Anything about running away or… can you tell me what he said to you when you guys went out trick or treating? And after I went to bed? Even if it doesn't seem important?"

Daniel gulped reflexively and looked down at his lap, brow furrowing.

"He… you won't get mad?" The kid, usually so tough and stroppy seemed almost fearful. Gideon felt a new twist of fear burst to life at the boy's words, at the look in his eyes. Fearful, anxious. Something had been exchanged, some key bit of information Jason Gideon was being to realize was grade A serious.

"I won't get mad. I promise. Whatever it is. But I need you to tell me anything Reid might have said that was out of character or… he has run away, Danny, and it's serious. Reid… he's not my son. He's my foster son. He... it's complicated, but I need to know anything he might have told you that-"

"He told me you weren't his real Dad, last night, when we were trick or treating."

Gideon nodded. He had a feeling something like that had happened. He tried to smile gently, just a little, to put the kid at ease. Daniel's eyes darted up and locked on his, uneasy.

"He… it was my fault. I… I took some whiskey with me last night. For trick or treating. Even though you… you're going to get _mad_…"

"I promise I won't get mad, but I need to know everything. It's important. _Please_."

Daniel stared at his lap for a moment, as if summoning courage and the tight, hard feeling in Jason Gideon's stomach began to throb and tighten even more. Gideon put his hand on the boy's shoulder and squeezed it gently and Danny's eyes skittered back up, glazed with tears.

"We had a few sips of it- the whiskey- nothing much, but Reid told me you weren't his real Dad, that his real Dad had beaten him, that he might be sent back and was scared about it and then… I swear it sounds stupid and I didn't think anything would come out of it but… I mean… I know he never would or…"

"_What_, Danny?"

"I..I…. I don't know why I said it but I said that… that if he got sent back and there was no escape than maybe… maybe… to be like the spies in the old days… when they were captured…by the enemy…" The last part of this sentence was almost a whisper, hitching higher and higher on the kid's register. He was quickly approaching castrato territory, whining like that.

"What does that mean?" Gideon said, eyes intently locking on the boy next to him, focused, lasers. Ready to burn.

_Jesus Christ in Heaven, please don't let that be what I think it is. _

"I…Reid too, not just me…"

Gideon shut his eyes for a moment. He had a pretty good idea what Daniel Crane was going to say.

"I said maybe it would be better to….to… Reid said that his father had almost killed him and might do it again if he was sent home, and that there was nothing you could do about it, even though you wanted to… to keep him safe… and I said, stupidly, I said maybe… maybe instead of letting his Dad kill him… _and only if there was no other way_…I mean.." Daniel stared down at his lap again. He was physically unable to say the words.

"Did you and Reid talk about suicide?" Gideon said, voice as neutral and unemotional as he could manage. Daniel nodded and lifted his head.

"Yeah, but, mostly just me. Not Reid. He seemed… upset by the idea. For real. I think me even bringing it up, I think it upset him. And I said something about going and living in Cali if I was in his shoes, because lots of runaways go there, and then… it's kind of hazy but we came home and we ate candy and then later…"

"Danny, _please_."

"He just seemed kind of bummed out later. While we were watching movies. Especially after you went to sleep. Said he loved you, that you were the best Dad ever and how ironic it was that someone like you spent his time running after monsters but his father had free access to him to be as much of a bastard as he wanted and that if life was in any way fair you would have been his real Dad from the beginning and his father would be sacked hunting monsters and then he said he was feeling tired, so we shut the movie off before it was done. And then I fell asleep and that's all I know. It was awkward, but I just assumed he was venting."

"And Reid, after that…" Gideon's gentle question was interrupted by forceful knocking on the door. The police had arrived.

As it turned out, Gideon was grateful for Aaron Hotchner's presence because until Hotch arrived the police didn't seem to understand the gravity of the situation.

"He's ten and you're his foster father… have you checked the entire house? Has he ever done anything like this before?"

"He has never run away before. Reid is not a typical child, this is completely out of character."

"I know, Mr. Gideon, that many foster children have emotional problems. In my experience the boy will come back when he gets bored. Is there anywhere he might have gone close by? Any place he likes to hang out?"

"Reid doesn't 'hang out'. He… look, I realize that many kids run away, but this is not a typical situation and…"

"This boy here, he's your son as well?"

"I'm Spencer's friend, I live next door," Daniel's voice was high-pitched again. Scared. "We were having a sleep over. Gideon, Mr. Gideon… he came downstairs and Reid was gone and…"

"You were having a sleep over? The boy ran away in the middle of a sleepover?" The officer questioning Daniel looked over at Gideon then, and his expression grew more serious.

"He's terrified. We need to find him. I… I need to find him…" Gideon got up off his couch and rubbed a hand nervously over his stubble. Daniel rose to his feet too.

"I am going to go look in his room, and see if he left a note, okay?" Danny's voice was a bit too loud, a bit too booming. Gideon nodded and the kid ran off.

The officer asking the questions, a young man in his late twenties, decided to follow Danny in the direction of Reid's room. Hotchner was suddenly there, talking with the two other officers that had entered and were watching, characteristically stern and suave, explaining that yes, the boy in question had a significant abuse history, that a custody hearing involving his client was a little over a week away and that the child's father was a lawyer. Reid was understandably terrified. Gideon let Hotch's serious, intelligent voice ground him and wandered into the kitchen, put the kettle on for his coffee (routine had always been a buoy for the agent whenever his life hit speed bumps). And suddenly, much as the hunch to check on Reid had hit him not an hour ago, another "hunch" crystallized. Gideon all but ran to his office, threw the lights on.

It looked like it always looked, but it was different. Gideon knew it on a level that was almost preternatural. Without a second thought Gideon went to his bookshelf and pulled out a leather bound tome. The book was hollowed out, and inside was a small key. Gideon palmed the key, felt around on top of the bookcase for his lockbox and carefully pulled it down.

He knew before it opened that the gun was gone, but he still had to see it. Or rather… not see it. Not see the gun. The SIG Sauer P226 was gone. His service weapon was missing. Except… it wasn't really missing.

Because Reid had the gun.

Spencer Reid had the fucking _semi-automatic pistol_ and… about 2 boxes of ammo. Jesus. Gideon closed the lockbox and went back to the living room to talk to Hotch. To talk to the police.

Reid had picked his lockbox. Stolen his service weapon. Stolen God knew how many bullets.

Maybe now they'd take this seriously.


	43. Chapter 43: Cicadas in the night

**Title:** Losing My Religion by Lexikal (Chapter forty three)

**Rating:** M for graphic violence against a child and language (in the first chapter, chapter 8 and chapter 10 so far. Chapter 28 has Reid discussing specific acts of abuse but not at length.)

**Fandom:** Criminal Minds

**Summary:** Spencer Reid, 10, is removed from his father's "care" after being violently attacked and is fostered by his old mentor, Jason Gideon. This is a sequel to "That's me in the corner". Features child abuse, do not read if underage.

**Author's Note: **Will hopefully have a few more chapters written before Christmas. Reviews are much appreciated. They are **nice** little kicks in the pants. I recently read "We need to talk about Kevin" by Lionel Shriver, and I have to say: I loved it. I am a very, very picky reader and tend to get bored easily, but the author's insight, complexity of the characters and lack of black and white (evil vs. good) "Disney" characters was very refreshing. It was the first book in a long time that I was disappointed to actually finish. The movie version of the book (which I actually saw more than a year before reading the book) is also excellent. Here is a youtube url to the trailer, in case you are curious:  watch?v=ZLRgAe2jLaw

On with the story…

* * *

"We sail within a vast sphere, ever drifting in uncertainty, driven from end to end." –Blaise Pascal

Spencer Reid's leg was aching, a deep throbbing pulse that seemed to radiate from the recently fused bone, beating in time with his heart. No doubt he had "stressed" out the newly healed tissues, pushing the limb too hard on his furious exodus. He had finally stopped biking around 4 a.m. He'd found truck stop and gas station just off the interstate, but an insistent, nagging voice inside had told him not to stop there. It was irrational. He was tired and it was a truck stop, but he had trusted that inner voice and biked farther, pumping the pedals harder with his numb feet. He'd gone another 20 miles (19.2, technically) with a polish of sticky sweat brimming on his upper lip and pale forehead and his stomach aching from exertion until he hit truck stop number two. His legs were burning and felt weak and bloodless from the exercise, his lungs screamed for rest and air and he spat out thick, stringy saliva that hang from his fuchsia face like some strange alien slime mold. Stringy, salty egg-white mucus and spit fell from his open, heaving lips so thick he was sure he'd choke if he tried to gag it down. The area around the second truck stop had been more densely wooded, and he had wheeled his bike on stiff legs over the asphalt, over the mossy ground and pine needles, behind an amorphous bush that smelled of rain and leafy earth and dropped the bmx, sighing with fatigue. The ground was spongy, littered with pine needles and rich black earth and there was the reassuring and inherently calming susurrus of cicadae.

It was a peaceful, if not dank and strangely humid early morning. Reid lowered himself on his stick-thin, gawky legs and grabbed his wrist. Took his pulse. His heart was still jackhammering dully, like a worn out bongo drum. _Bongbongbongskipbongabongabo ng!_

Reid counted his breaths, tried to pretend the increasingly shrill clawing pain scissoring out from the recently fractured bone like movement under tectonic plates was normal over-exertion, but his "good" leg, while stiff and achy, wasn't screaming at his nerve endings quite the same way and his racing, never-silent brain knew better. Only an idiot would push a leg that had so recently been in multiple pieces to this extent and not expect one's body to protest.

Reid spit a second mouthful of slimy, sticky goop out and concluded that he was dehydrated. It was the only explanation for his spit being so damn, well, mucilaginous was the only word that really captured that gummy, tacky wad in his mouth. Another hawked loogie into the spongy earth. Somewhere nearby, some small nightly animal rustled in the underbrush like an afterthought. He was suddenly, blaringly aware that he was thirsty. Maybe thirstier than he had ever been in his relatively short (if not uneventful) life. Reid cast a wary glance over his shoulder and decided to walk a bit farther from the interstate, from the eldritch orange sodium lights glowing like beacons of electric flame along the vast, dark highway, from the truck stop and the Texaco gas station. He was damned sure nobody had seen him at this distance and the few shooting, spectral headlights on the highway seemed a world away. He wanted to keep it that way.

When he was far enough away that the gas station and 24 hour diner seemed were sparks on the horizon he stopped. Ten minute walk away, his watch read. He stopped and eased slowly to the ground. The sky was just starting to lighten, the inky, viscous blackness of total night was transforming into the dull, purple subfusc expanse of latent morning. The lights on the highway, eerie and alien, had never seemed so spectacular and other-worldly before. In less than 3 hours Spencer Reid had dropped out of his little-boy life and into a martian landscape where he could almost feel his neurons reassembling into something pubescent and brave. Fumbling tiredly with the zipper on his backpack, Reid pulled out a can of cola and jerked the tab open with his thumbnail. He gulped the fizzy liquid down so quickly that it took a full ten seconds for him to realize his mistake, and by then his esophagus was clenching painfully and spasmodically.

"Slow down, Reidy boy," He told himself gently, steeling against the impulse to puke up his soda. Liquid was now a precious resource.

After 5 minutes he drained the last of the soda and tossed the empty can into the shadowy ether where it landed with a dull metallic thump just somewhere out of his sight. The air was cool and tacky, the type of wet cold that promises to get into your bones and make you shiver unless you can get warm and dry but Reid was currently over-exerted and numb to such matters and it would be several hours before this particular cold could reach him. And by then the sun would be up again.

His sweat shirt was damp with dew and sweat. He shivered, not out of cold, but lingering uncertainty and fumbled in the gloom through his bag. Pulled out his Polaroid camera and angled it up at the horizon and took a shot of the highway at night. The lights dotting the black lonely expanse of asphalt like beacons. The film ejected and he carefully laid it back on top of his bag and pulled out a slim, leather bound book and a ballpoint pen, and a flashlight. Turned the flashlight on angled the beam at the paper. Uncapped the pen. He began to write, hunched over his diary, face intent and focused. Someday, if he was lucky, he'd look back at these entries and cherish them. His own personal little adventure through dark Africa, so to speak.

_Thursday, November 1st, 1990._

_Dear Diary,_

_It is currently 4:06 a.m. according to the digital coleman camping watch Gideon got me when I came to live with him so many crazy days ago. I decided, finally, to run away a little over 3 hours ago. Not from Gideon, mind you, but from whatever fate awaited me if I had stayed. It would have been a Gideon-free fate, of course; shuttled to some disastrous foster home closer to my biological parents in Vegas for their parental convenience and my emotional health, some claptrap legalistic bullshit dressed up to sound like my friend. Does anyone really buy this bullshit, that the legal system ever has the best interests of the child in question? I am ten years old and I can see how miserable this system is, how Calvinistic it is. At the end of the day, the underlying presumption is that parents are supremely important and children are their property. I have been down this road before, and they sent me back "home", those fuckers. All of them. Stupid fuckers. I begged not to go, they tried to placate me with obvious lies that at the age of eight, I still had a bit of faith in. It wouldn't happen again, they said. My father had apparently taken anger management classes and some government drone handing out Xeroxed copies of some community college parenting 101 course felt he was cured of whatever demons had initially compelled him to beat me senseless in the first place. Some idiot I could outthink in diapers sent me back and it DID happen again, and then Gideon took me and he has been trying his hardest, but I know he won't be able to keep me. I will not go back to that home again, either, **I** won't go, I don't care what the ruling is. I'd rather die on my feet than on my knees, so to speak. _

Reid stopped writing and bit the end of his blue Bic ballpoint pen until his teeth left perfect dental records in the plastic. He scratched his cheek, felt some small, tiny gnat stick to the dewy flesh. Got back to writing.

_I hope Gideon isn't too upset when he finds out I am gone, whatever that means. What does upset even mean in this situation? Surely, if I did what I was told like a good little boy and was eventually returned home and 6 months from now, or a year, I end up in the morgue… surely that would be much more upsetting, right? I really love him, Gideon, I really love him so much and being an FBI profiler, I am sure he must know that. Mustn't he? Or will he wake up and find me gone and feel played, manipulated by the traumatized Tiny Tim that I see when I look in the mirror? I don't know. I am fucking ten years old, and even though I might not write like a typical ten year old, my experience on this planet is limited. At the end of the day, I don't really know what he will think. The fact that he is a profiler might even complicate things. He will no doubt instinctively profile me in a way he hasn't done yet when he finds I am gone, if for no other reason than to help get me back "safe and sound", and putting him in the position of having to hunt me down for my own safety… I wonder if that will subconsciously turn me into a monster like he deals with when he is being his official profiling self. The subconscious mind really doesn't differentiate, it doesn't get symbolism, it doesn't understand metaphors. He will find me gone, his heart rate will rise, his mind will start to work me out like a math equation so he can find me and in doing so I will become a human puzzle to solve. And I knew that, (didn't I?) but it was inevitable. Innocent or not, I am still, emotionally, a fugitive. I may not be wanted for some crime, but I am still wanted, and I still am not free. What's the difference between being a fugitive of a crime and a fugitive because you are a child and running from your legal owners? From my point of view, there isn't a difference. Isn't my point of view the only one that is supposed to really matter in this situation?_

His hand was beginning to cramp. Reid ran his eyes over his own sloppy handwriting, mouth working into a half-smile, eyes bright and shining. He felt unreal, surreal. He'd always taken shelter in thinking when he was troubled or scared, and what was writing if not thinking on paper? His own voice, coming back to him, sounded logical and scared and strong and even through the fatigue and uncertainty, he had to smile. He flexed his hand and willed the burning cramp to go. Checked his watch. It was 4:18 a.m. 3 pages were full of chicken scratch but this was his first entry and he wanted it to be complete. He leveled his eyes at the horizon. The traffic was beginning to pick up. In the last 12 minutes there seemed to be double the cars on the road and in a few short hours it would be hazardous to bike, not just because of the traffic, but because of the sunlight. Because he could be spotted and rounded up in the back of a black and white like a derelict or a drunk. The thought of being "picked up" by the police like an annoying little juvenile delinquent made Spencer Reid feel a familiar twist of shame. His skin prickled at the thought, as did the back of his eyes. His cheeks burned with shame.

Being small when you were running away was a liability. Probably why most runaways never ran away for long.

He turned back to his diary. The Polaroid had long since developed, not much to see really. Hazy, indistinct halos of orange lights along a black smudge, which could only be figured out as a road if the viewer already knew what they were looking at. Reid rustled through the bag, found a roll of duct-tape and ripped off a piece with his teeth. He rolled it into a neat loop, spread it on the back of the Polaroid and neatly patted the picture into his diary. Satisfied, he picked up his pen again.

_It's still night out, or dark I mean, even though it is nearly 4:30 now. In a few hours it will be light and I already feel scared, like I have turned into a vampire and the light is now my enemy. I am a good 10 minute walk from a truck stop and Texaco station at this exact moment. My plan is to stay here and watch the highway. Watch for police cars, and wait for truckers to come. I haven't seen any trucks yet. If I see a truck stopped for more than ten minutes, then I will check and see if I can stow away, if it is going west. My plan is to go to California. California is warm year round, it attracts a lot of runaways and there are bound to be social outreach programs. If I keep on my toes and stay under the radar I might be able to stay on the streets, which is preferable to going back home. I wish I could live with Gideon, of course, but that will not happen so there is no point in even thinking about it. The photo I taped in here right above this paragraph is of the interstate 395 in Virginia at night. It reminds me of an alien landing strip right now, with the street lights glowing orange along the edges and the shooting headlights. I have never been on a lonely highway by myself in the middle of the night before._

Reid stopped again. Chewed his pen. The action was soothing, like sucking his thumb, but not as obviously infantile and therefore, acceptable.

_I am scared, diary. I am scared of having run away. I am scared of what is going to become of me on my own. I am scared of what Gideon is going to think of me, whatever happens. I am scared of being picked up like a common criminal by the police, and of being forced to expose my deepest emotions to strangers if that happens. I am so tired of being scared. I want it to be over so badly. I am just so tired. Wish me luck on my journey. I will write again soon. Thanks for "listening". Sincerely, Spencer. _

He eyed the entry appraisingly, sighed. Nodded to himself. It was an okay first entry. Honest. He put it back in his backpack, the diary and the pen and zipped the bag up. He was sitting cross-legged in front of a bush he couldn't place, he was tired, his legs ached, he was just starting to feel a little chilly and was mentally beating himself up for not bringing a plastic garbage bag to spread on the ground as a barrier between himself and the dewy ground. It was always the little, obvious things that tripped a person up.

Reid closed his eyes. Disappeared into a splotchy black grey of exhaustion that wasn't sleep but wasn't full awareness, either.

* * *

It was nearly 5 when the police left. Daniel had phoned his father, and the man, irascible and hung-over had hung up the phone before the boy could explain what was going on. Under ordinary circumstances Gideon would have been compelled to do more than stare blankly at the twelve year old, but these weren't normal circumstances. Reid had run away. Reid had his gun. Reid had taken lots of bullets. Reid was gone.

The truth of the matter kept cycling through his head, a horribly mocking and disturbing mobile. Hotch had stayed and was sitting on the couch, going through Reid's files, brushing up on a case he knew too well, fully aware that Gideon was a timber box of emotions and scared for the kid. Daniel, too, hovered on the periphery, wandering back from the fridge with a soda and puppy dog eyes, unsure what to do with himself.

Gideon was used to dealing with sad, scary situations. He was a profiler for the BSU, after all. But this was different. Shame and self-loathing swirled and wrenched at his gut. He had a personal attachment to Reid. He knew Reid better than he had ever known another child, knew he was scared, and had gotten sloppy. Had let the kid's hypothetical nightmare realities build up until the kid had run in fear of them. There was no excuse for that.

And Reid had taken his service weapon. That fact gnawed at his intestines like a rat. Chew, chew, chew… the sensation was almost physical pain.

"I should have paid more attention to him," Gideon said softly, eyes scanning the walls of the den as if he might find some key bit of information which would tell him where Reid had gone, exactly. The police had told him to stay put. It would not be good to get in the car and search the neighborhood. The boy would probably come back. But there was a more significant, sinister reason Gideon wasn't disobeying their suggestions. On some level he wouldn't consciously admit to himself, he was afraid of finding Reid. Of having to be the one to drag him back, of becoming an enemy, in a way. Or, infinitely worse, finding Reid on the corner of the highway, not moving, because he had that damned gun and his fear had driven him to, a black halo around his head under the moonlight and…

The thought made him feel instantly queasy. A gurgle of panic in his gut. Hotch noticed the change in that preternaturally astute manner of his and laid Reid's file down.

"You couldn't predict he'd run away, Jason. I would never have pegged him for the type," Hotch's voice was devoid of all emotion, utterly professional. His eyes alone betrayed his attachment to the boy, spoke of his unrest.

"The type?" Gideon asked blandly, not comprehending.

"The type to run away from his problems," Hotch explained solemnly, dark eyes intense. "This isn't a logical move. He's clearly a gifted child. How long does he really expect to be able to make it out there?"

Gideon shut his eyes. Felt anger mix with the panic and fear that had taken root in his chest, in his guts, even in his gonads. His whole body was poised for the news of something horrific, curled up in on itself. Cold.

"Everyone has their breaking point. He held out longer than most grown men would have, and it is precisely his intelligence that may have led him to run. He couldn't delude himself into believing that we all-powerful adults can keep him safe. Not when we've failed him so badly before…" Gideon stopped, hating the bitter, sarcastic hate in his voice. Hotch's face had taken on a vaguely apologetic expression.

"Just because I can see why he did it, after the fact, doesn't mean I would have expected this."

"I know Reid, Aaron. And I am a profiler. I should have seen this."

"You're not God."

Gideon smiled ironically, shook his head. He felt like yelling at Aaron, making him see that clearly this was foreseeable, and clearly he had fucked up. Daniel, meanwhile, was sitting on the floor in the corner, eyes darting warily from the young, studious lawyer to the haggard middle aged FBI profiler. Gideon looked at the boy. Told himself to get a grip.

"Daniel, I realize this must be really…" Gideon trailed. All the platitudes, the usual empty, rehearsed assumptions fell flat on his lips. Daniel's eyes were shiny with unspent tears.

"Do you want me to take you home?"

Daniel sniffled, wiped his nose with the sleeve of his shirt. Shook his head no.

"My Dad is drunk and I want to know if Reid comes home."

"Would you… is there anything I… do you want to talk?"

Jason Gideon's brain was running on several different paths. One part of his conscious self was planning a speech he planned to air on the local radio, come Hell or high water, to convince Reid to call home, or come home. He'd get on the radio, somehow. Reid would listen and hear him and come back, because Reid had no doubt taken a radio. He was imagining calls to the kid's social worker, case managers, potential injuries to not only Reid but to _his case_, that starkly disastrous potential end-game that might drop into his life, his awareness like an atom bomb (_suicide,_ but the word could not be said out loud, or even thought, as if, magically, thinking it would make it real and jinx everything)… but he had to debrief Reid's friend, Daniel. A little boy in his own right. Sitting there. What to say? When he had already failed his own charge so badly?

Daniel's eyes were red and puffy, though Gideon hadn't seen a single tear fall, nor heard crying. His face suddenly had the strangled, anguished look of a kid trying not to cry. The type of brave front that dissolves with a kind word, a gentle look of concern. Gideon couldn't handle the kid's tears, not now.

"Do you want to go to Reid's room, Daniel? Until your Dad… gets the phone?" He knew his voice might be interpreted by a guilt-stricken twelve-year-old as slightly blaming, but those tears, no, he couldn't deal with them. Wouldn't deal with them right now. Later, yes. Not now. Priorities. "Why don't you go to Reid's room, Daniel? Okay? Go check in on Castor and Pollux. I am sure they are lonely. They might need water."

Daniel, have been given both an order and a task to do, nodded tightly and got up. Whatever emotionality had been growing like a thundercloud across his face shifted and began to fade. He blinked slowly, rubbed his eyes. Distracted. Nodded. Wandered toward his missing friend's bedroom. Hotch glanced in the boy's direction, brow furrowing, but said nothing. His look said it all.

"Would you like me to take him home?" Hotch said after a few awkwardly silent seconds.

"He lives next door," Gideon said dismissively.

"I know that, Jason."

"His father is barely conscious, Aaron. He's a drunk. He's better off here." Gideon spat the last word out, "here", like it was bitter poison. Hotch nodded, apparently impassive except for those alert, sharp eyes. Fair enough. There was a knock at the door. Not loud or authoritative enough to be the police, familiar in its cadence. Rossi had arrived for the party, Gideon thought grimly, a grimace on his lips.

Hotch glanced at Gideon pointedly and rose to get the door when it became apparent Gideon was content to sit and stare at the creases in his palms. The lawyer's eyes narrowed slightly.

"He'll be found, Jason. He'll be okay, you know."

"Will he." It wasn't a question. It was too flat. But Hotch answered anyway.

"Yes. He will." It was a resolute response. Confident. Gideon wished he could feel as sure of the outcome as the young lawyer staring down at him.

* * *

Another chapter done. My sister wants me to write her some Mentalist fan fic and I told her no way until I get at least some of these ancient CM fics out of the way. So now, I have a bit of a kick in the pants. Reviews are much appreciated.


	44. Chapter 44: March of the Pigs

**Title:** Losing My Religion by Lexikal (Chapter forty four)

**Rating:** M for graphic violence against a child and language (in the first chapter, chapter 8 and chapter 10 so far. Chapter 28 has Reid discussing specific acts of abuse but not at length.)

**Fandom:** Criminal Minds

**Summary:** Spencer Reid, 10, is removed from his father's "care" after being violently attacked and is fostered by his old mentor, Jason Gideon. This is a sequel to "That's me in the corner". Features child abuse, do not read if underage.

**Author's Note: **Heh, it is almost December 14th. So maybe I can do a kind of 12 days of Christmas thing, churn out a chapter a day (or what amounts to a chapter a day by Christmas morning)? We'll see. It would be a nice present to myself to get one of these fics done by Christmas. I never imagined they would spawn into these huge novels, but there you go. Fan fiction can be hazardous. Like always, please review. This chapter is weird, part experiment, based on some of my own personal memories from childhood all squashed together. The times I saw animal cruelty and terror in the eyes of animals as a kid, for the first time, and contemplated evil, well… I thought this scene might work. If it doesn't, this is fan fic and you can gloss over it in your head. Keep in mind Reid is half mad with his own ruminations and self doubt by now, and has been slowly going crazy for the length of this story. I also am not in the head space I was when I started this story- it was "supposed" to be much shorter, not as dark, not as experimental. So again, I hope this chapter works. I think it might, if you can grasp just how half-crazy he is by this point. Story starts now:

* * *

"_It is good to be tired and wearied by the futile search after the true good, that we may stretch out our arms to the Redeemer."- Blaise Pascal_

Reid didn't so much wake up as come slowly back to full conscious awareness. He blinked crud out of his eyes and checked his watch. It was already 7:34 a.m. No doubt Gideon knew he was gone by now. This was real now, this run away thing. Gideon would have gotten the police involved, of course, and the idea made Reid feel both ashamed of himself and scared of being caught, but intellectually, rationally, he knew the police had better things to do with their time than to comb the woods and the highways looking for one runaway ten year old foster kid. Reid's butt was numb and prickly from having fallen "asleep" awkwardly against the shrub. His bike lay carelessly tossed by his feet, like the skeleton of a strange beast of burden, forgotten. He was suddenly aware that he was chilly and damp from early morning dew and he wished for a moment to be back at Gideon's, so he could get a hot shower and make himself a bowl of instant oatmeal (peaches and cream flavor, of course) and curl up in front of the television with Daniel or challenge Gideon to a game of Go or Chess. Instead, Gideon had no doubt called the police and made a statement and his parents- his father- had almost certainly been notified. Gideon would have noticed his gun missing and was worrying himself a stomach ulcer. Reid bit his lower lip at the visual image of his kind, devoted foster father scouring the house desperately, the trace lines in his brow deepening with worry and concern as the stark truth became unavoidable: his foster son really was gone. Reid gazed up at the sky, light now, and felt a swell of sadness wash over him like a wave. For a second that wave threatened to drag him out to his own personal sea of shame and utter despair, a powerful emotional undercurrent. He bit his lip and exhaled sharply, eyes screwed shut, emotions jousting for supremacy. Why was it always that, no matter how hard he tried to be smart and protect himself and be polite and be good, the people closest to him ended up suffering too?

The shame burned in his stomach, chasing away a bit of the chill from the dewy ground. He got up clumsily and wiped errant strands of grass from his butt and the legs of his sweat pants. Gazed over at the Texaco, eyes narrowing. There were 3 large trucks, he could see them, glinting in the early morning light in the diner's parking lot like blue bottle flies.

He hadn't slept- except for a few restless minutes at a time- in close to three days. Gideon hadn't noticed. Reid knew Gideon was exhausted, too, wrestling with demons that weren't his job to battle. Three trucks, one for each day he'd been awake. Daniel's comments about suicide had been the low note, and convinced him that he had to bolt, because in Daniel's words he heard his own voice speaking in his head. He wanted to live. He would not go back. Three trucks waiting, one for three days. Reid rubbed at his eyes tiredly. They burned and itched.

As he had been falling into a dreamless, deep slumber after the bike "trip" from Gideon's, he had considered hiding out nearby this Texaco for a few days. To throw the police off his scent. But then, upon awakening, had seen that delay for what it was: cowardice. Being too afraid to take the next step and actually become a stow-away. Being too afraid to continue with his plan. So now, rigidly, he marched over the terrain. Stopped. Fished off his glasses and put them in the backpack. No doubt there wasn't an APB out for him, not after a few measly hours, but it never hurt to be too careful, and his thick glasses were pretty distinctive. Reid squinted as the asphalt horizon and rectangular buildings of the Texaco and diner blurred into an amorphous slop of grey and white against the latent autumnal hues of the early morning Virginia landscape. Sucked in his breath and forced his legs to keep going.

He continued to march, ignoring that aching little pain in his leg that had woken back up with a vengeance- it wasn't bad enough to cause a limp, not yet, but the muscle was sore and would no doubt get worse.

One of these trucks, he'd get in one. Somehow. One would be going west, had to be going west, and he'd know by the license plate which truck to hop. And he would hop that one. He would.

What could only be called his conscience was prattling along with a slightly hypomanic pep talk, inspiring him to keep moving and not seize up with doubt and fear like the Tin Man from Wizard of Oz in need of his oil can. His own internal voice, so hypnotic and compelling, (almost mocking, really) rallying him, deceivingly cheery and bright and trying its damndest to shut out the voice of a deeper, older, much less certain part of himself which was more than ready to piss his pants.

_Easy peasy, Japanesy, Spencey. The journey of a thousand miles begins with single step. Just keep moving your legs, just take the plunge. You can do it Spencer. You can do it. Be free. It's within your reach now. Just get through the first hard days, then things will get easier. The first day is bound to be the hardest. The scariest. Like jumping off the high board at the YMCA public swimming pool. Dizzying and vertiginous until you hit the water and realize you have conquered your fear, and then, Spencer, don't you always want to climb back up and jump again? Sure you do. Just keep up your courage, bite the bullet… you can be free. You want to be free; I know you do, because I am you. You know you do… c'mon Spencer, what is so hard about jumping up into a truck, anyway? Just jump on in, curl up, have a pop tart. Maybe two, as a reward. Easy. _

100 feet or so from the trucks he stopped. Gazed in the direction he had biked from Gideon's home. Forced a clot of thick saliva down his throat. Swallowed down the sadness. It felt like forcing egg yolk through a pinhole. Time was of the essence, though. Hell, every minute he was gone was a minute that the police (possibly) might take this more seriously and put out an alert for him, an APB, an "All points bulletin". Or, no, didn't they call missing kid alerts something different? Reid wasn't sure. He licked his lips nervously, had a sudden and not entirely pleasant mental image of a sinister looking doppleganger of himself holding a loaded gun to "innocent Spencer's" head and forcing him to get in a non-descript white van. The image both terrified him and excited him and he blinked his eyes, hard, and refocused as well as he could on the trucks.

Truckers, they often listened to police broadcasts on their radios, didn't they? Reid wasn't sure, but it sounded like something long distance haulers might do. What were those devices called again, the ones that let ordinary civilians eavesdrop on police channels? _Fuzz busters_? Something like that.

He forced his legs to start moving again. He could see (or at least, vaguely make out) three trucks. He was now 50 feet away and at the back of his awareness he processed the smell of manure, of the zoo or the circus. Dismissed it. His eyes and brain were only focused on the trucks, the plates. 30 feet away. His tennis shoes crunched noisily over the quartz gravel. 20 feet away. His mouth was drying up. He worked the side of his cheek with his teeth, trying to draw moisture back. 10 feet away now, and his heart was trembling inside his chest like a scared passerine bird. He squinted harder, willing his astigmatic eyes to focus, damn it. The one directly in front of him had… were they? Yes! California plates.

Jackpot his first time playing. What luck! Obviously a sign from the Gods to proceed. Reid swallowed heavily even though a spasmodic jerky smile had landed on his face and was pulling up the right side of his mouth despite his permission. The tips of his fingers were tingling. He closed the distance in a few, surprisingly graceful lopes (given the growing throbbing in his leg) and stopped short. Glanced over his shoulder to make sure the parking lot was safely empty. It was. He climbed up onto the back of the truck and peered in through open slats, the soles of his sneakers squeaking on the silver metal grating which rested over the bumper, his bad leg screaming louder.

His breath caught raggedly on the way out of his mouth like something corporeal and fleshy getting caught on barbed wire.

He stared.

They stared back.

Just as horrified as he was.

Almost as human.

His breath finally collapsed out of his mouth in a wheeze, mortally wounded. He blinked robotically. Swallowed hard. Knew intellectually what he was looking at, but couldn't keep the sudden onslaught of rage and sadness and horror from flattening him against the slit windows of the truck just as surely as if he had been hit by some powerful physical force.

They were staring at him. Petrified.

Pigs.

Dozens of them. Hundreds? Crowded into the slaughter truck, all staring up at him with an eerie, deathly silence and surprisingly human eyes. He'd never seen pigs like this in real life. Certainly never seen any animal look so nauseatingly terrified and resigned to its fate at the same time.

Bloodshot eyes, bulging in the sockets with barely restrained panic, the smell of death about them, of shit and piss and fear. Reid continued to gawk, physically unable to tear his eyes from the scene, feeling their horror in his chest and in his veins like short electrical shocks, the same horror he had felt repeatedly throughout his short life. The terror of being hunted and cornered, unable to get away, unable to run or fight but only stare and **fear**, fear as a verb and not a noun.

Whatever moisture had been left in his mouth was gone. A feeling of tension, of tightness, wrapped around his chest, threatening to strangle. To asphyxiate. The panic snake, he thought with strange detachment. Chuckled a weak, miserable laugh. He and the pigs… were brethren. In their eyes was his own ongoing horrific dream world. In their eyes, also, was his hope of escape, however slim. They shared the same shadow monster, always coming, always hunting, never stopping, hearts in throats beating too fast. All the time, fast. All the time, scared. Or was there anything but resignation? Was there anything in those countless brown irises but horror, terror, sheer panic that has tipped into silent madness?

Reid let himself off the back of the truck. He felt disconnected and strange. Laughed again. Louder. Too loud. A slightly insane laugh. _Ha ha HAW_! _Pigs! Pigs of all things! Fucking pigs with human eyes. Ha ha HAW HAW HAH! _He knew he should find another truck, but the thought was in his head, flapping; the decision loud and noisy like a flock of pigeons all landing at once inside the dusty corridors of his mind. A drove of pigeons. A drove of wings, all flapping at once, and in those flapping wings the silent pleas: _helpmehelpushelpmeohpleasehu manhumanboyhelpmehelpus _running together like a litany of prayers echoing out of the bowels of Hell itself.

Had he gone crazy? Maybe. Possibly. Crazy Spencer Reid. Just like his mama. Had pigs started talking to his mother at the age of ten? Maybe. Probably.

"Shit, you guys are terrified, aren't you?"

His voice rang in the air, discordant, younger than his 10 years but also older, and he giggled again and wiped at his nose. It was running clear snot onto his cuff sleeve.

"We sure are a fucking pack of beasts, we humans. Aren't we?"

The pigs didn't answer. Reid laughed again, a barking laugh like croup.

Each word dancing in the air. No response but that horrific, dazed staring from the pigs. One of the pigs, to Reid's growing horror, was one eyed. The other eye hole was a sunken bowl of cakey red and snot green pus. Reid giggled harder. Of course. Of course. This was his own Hell.

His hands looked like they belonged to somebody else, dancing in his vision. Like looking through the wrong end of a telescope.

The jerky, spasmodic grin pulling at the right side of his mouth- as if some puppeteer was jerking on an invisible string- got more intense, more pronounced.

Fate had brought him here, on this day, to these pigs. He knew that instantly, with the faithful conviction of a child on the run for his own life. How could he expect any potential sentient God to intervene in his own life and save him from his own nightmares when he, having almost God-like power next to these miserable, shit-stained animals, might walk away and let them endure their worst fears?

No.

_He had to save them._

Reid knew that as surely and deeply as he had known anything, ever. He had to save them. He didn't have a choice, in fact. If he doomed them, if he walked away, he would surely die. He would die. God (up until now he hadn't been sure, would have defined himself as an agnostic but now everything seemed so suddenly _clear_) would punish him for not helping these pigs. And his Dad would get him back. And he would die. Somehow, he would die. And like the pigs, his end would not be pretty.

What's worse? If he didn't help them? He would deserve whatever he had coming. This was his test.

Reid knew it. He knew all of this instantly. He knew his conviction wasn't technically rational. He knew this type of thinking was what shrinks would call "magical". He didn't care. Because he knew it in his blood, in his veins, deeper than anything he had ever known with his clumsy, fallible mind. Spencer Reid stared at the back of the slaughter truck and pulled on one of the doors. Locked.

Locked. He stared at it dumbly. Of course, it was possible it would be locked. Made sense, now that he thought about it.

He licked his lips. Looked at the door. There was an indent, where one was meant to press and pull. Then the doors would come open. But they were locked.

He had to unlock the door. Reid stared harder. Blinked. Then he remembered the gun.

He swallowed again. Took off his backpack. Unzipped it. Pulled out his glasses, and put them on. Pulled out Gideon's gun and laid it on the ground. A SIG Sauer P226 .40 caliber. It looked lethal and playful, both. Reid bent down on one knee, sifted through his crap and pulled out a handful of bullets. Put them down on the ground in a little pile. He imagined a cairn of bullets- a funeral mound of bullets- and the spasmodic jerking of his mouth gave way to a high-pitched, slightly hysterical laugh that whinnied out of him and didn't let up.

He fumbled with the gun. He hated guns. Hated the damn things. Hated all they represented; brute force over intelligence and skill, conflict resolution by way of pressing a trigger and dispatching the enemy, the way any yokel could get one and fire it off, those lethal noise-makers. Reid swallowed again.

He knew, in theory, how to remove the clip. A little button. Near the trigger. He tugged. The clip slid out into his hand, heavier than he had expected. Empty. The safety… Reid squinted, not because he couldn't see, but because he was unsure of what he was doing.

He had to do this. Free the pigs. Their eyes were surely his eyes. If he didn't help them, those eyes would haunt him for the rest of his fucking life. The world was fucking unfair and fucking insane, but he could help them. Let them at least have a shot at life, no pun intended. If he didn't… This was his test. This would redeem him.

Maybe.

Spencer Reid loaded the clip, 12 bullets. The P226 took 12 bullets. Was there one in the chamber, maybe? He had no idea, but surely Gideon would have made sure there wasn't. He snapped the magazine back into the semi automatic. Aimed it playfully at the door of the truck, one eye slit shut. Came closer.

Put the muzzle right up to the door's vertical slit of a keyhole, flush to the lock chamber. A vertical verticle, as it were. Reid chuckled dryly. He clicked the safety off. He felt strangely peaceful.

He'd never fired a gun before.

Take a deep breath. Hold it. Part of his brain told him this was insane. This was _stupid_. Criminal!

_Do it already, you fucking hewww-man._

_Help us hewwww-man._

_We need you._

_Pleeeeeeeeease._

The smell of shit and piss and fear.

This wasn't insane. This was _right_. He was freeing prisoners. No more.

No less.

Reid let out his breath. Looked at the door with deadly eyes. Took another breath. Began to silently count.

One…

Two…

_Three…_

The gun going off was deafening, cliché be damned. Reid was expecting the bang but that he'd actually been able to do it, actually fire the gun- that reality made the sound somehow louder than anything he could have imagined. His knees went weak but held him up, even though he had staggered backward a few steps. He reached out to pull on the latch of the door, to open it… and there was a hard, heavy hand on his shoulder then and he was whipped around.

"_What the fuck do you think you're doing, boy?!"_ The face of the trucker was somewhere between bewildered and furious. The guy's face hadn't made up its' mind yet just what it wanted its' expression to be. Reid didn't bother trying to explain. His heart was hammering. The trucker dropped his eyes, registered the gun. Stepped back slowly.

Reid laughed at the absurdity of all of this. Surely he was dreaming.

"You… you might want to give me that gun, kid. Before you shoot yourself in the foot or something."

Reid stared fixedly. He could feel other eyes on him now. There was a commotion coming from the direction of the diner's entrance. A man filling up his what looked like the grown-up equivalent of a soapbox derby car at the Texaco was staring with his mouth hanging open.

Reid took a step back instinctively. Blinked hard.

"I had to free them…" He waved his free hand behind him, indicating the pigs. "You don't know how scared they are."

The trucker's expression softened. His voice took on the dulcet tone of someone trying to calm a schizophrenic who is off his meds.

"Well, sure, I can understand your reasoning, kid. But even still, why don't you give me that thing, and I can call your Dad and…"

Reid had taken another step at the word Dad. The gun hung, muzzle aimed in the dirt. He glanced in the direction of his backpack. At the feet of the trucker. Yeah. This hadn't been the plan. Stupid. Stupid Reid. Shitshitshitshitshit.

He took another step backward. And another. Toward the expanse of basically undeveloped Virginia wilderness he'd been conked out on not twenty minutes ago when escape had still been possible.

"I'm not going back," Reid said fiercely. The trucker nodded, clearly out of his depth. But nodding is what you were supposed to do when crazy people said things, right? Nod, and keep them talking?

"Whatever you say, kid."

"You come near me, and…" Reid trailed. It was clear what the threat was.

He wouldn't go back. Not… back to any place. Only forward.

"Well, I'll just stay put then, okay?"

Reid nodded solemnly. He backed up another step, eyes flicking back and forth over the trucker's face, never ceasing. Another step backward. The man who had been filling up his crappy cardboard box at the Texaco a few seconds ago seemed to have evaporated into thin air.

When Reid was a good 50 feet from the trucker, back facing nothing but an open expanse of space dotted with trees and shrubs, he turned and ran. He bolted. He had never run as hard or as fast. He ran without stopping, sprinting, for ten minutes. He all but flew over the ground. When he finally stopped, his legs more or less buckled under him, bloodless and rubbery, his chest wheezing for air, straining mouth open and gasping.

He was far, far from the doomed pigs with their crazy popping eyes and the parking lot and the almost-obese trucker with the paunch and the baseball cap reading "Big Ed's Hauling" across the front in bright green cursive, splattered across the cartoon grille of a semi truck. That had been a god damn ugly baseball cap. Ugly as sin. No one had come after him, though, not a soul. His face was wet. Tears.

When had he started crying again? Were they even his tears? Or the god-damned pigs'? All that, and he hadn't even let them out.

Another laugh.

What had he just done?

_What the fuck had he just done?_

* * *

Giden caught the phone on the first ring and snatched it up. Hotch was getting on his jacket, preparing to leave. Rossi had come and decided to sit with Daniel. Profile things from that end.

Damn lucky that Rossi wasn't on a case. Gideon could use a second pair of eyes for this.

He put the phone to his ear, almost scared. Said his name.

Hotch flicked him a sternly curious expression. Gideon went still, listening, instantly alert. Then his face screwed up in disbelief.

"He did _what_?!"

Gideon's tone of voice held Hotch's complete attention now. Something was up. Something unexpected. Hotch grabbed his briefcase, his notes. Gideon was already scanning the room from his keys, eyes flicking over to the young lawyer with intense meaning.

"So where is he now? Does he know where he went at least, the general direction? Yes, the backpack… no gun? Yes, yes… I heard you. I'll be there in ten minutes. Yes, dogs might be a good idea."

Gideon's face was draining of color, turning that yellow-white drained colour Caucasian skin went when someone got bad news so suddenly the blood dropped out of their head.

Rossi was in the living room. He'd apparently heard the phone, or heard Gideon's shrill bark. Daniel was behind him, bug-eyed and curious.

"A trucker at a truck stop not 25 miles from here just saw Reid. He… Reid… shot at the back of the man's truck and ran away." Gideon moved a hand over his face, blinked hard and stared over at Rossi. Rossi stared back, expression shocked.

This was certainly unexpected.

"The guy was hauling pigs to slaughter. Reid shot at the lock, the guy heard the gun shot and came outside, saw Reid, pulled him down off the truck… Reid turned around and pointed the gun at the guy, then ran off with the gun. And only the gun. Left his backpack in the parking lot. Apparently this wasn't the most thought out plan."

Gideon was already zipping up his jacket, half way out of the living room. Hotch followed him, saying something about following in his car.

This could end very badly if Reid did something rash while upset. If he had shot at the back of a truck heading to slaughter, upset was an understatement.

How long had this shit been coming down the line? What was going on in that disturbed, compassionate, frightened scared-shit-less little head?

_Don't you dare do anything stupid, Spencer. I'm coming. You're not in trouble. I get it. Those pigs represented your own fear. I get it, kiddo. I am sorry I didn't reassure you about all this shit. Didn't look harder. I am so sorry. You're not alone, you are not in trouble, and I promise you if you hold on, I will not let you go back. I promise you. I promise. You will not go back to that. I promise. Just use that big brain of yours. Take a deep breath and thing. Please Spencer. Please buddy… I'm coming. You're not in trouble. And you're not going back. I promise I won't let anyone give you back to that son of a bitch if you just hold on. I know why you shot at the lock, I get it, I get it, you wanted to free them. You want to be free, too. Please hold on._

It was a rather eloquent prayer, of sorts.

* * *

Please review. We are a handful of chapters away from the end now.


	45. Chapter 45: Sinking

**Title:** Losing My Religion by Lexikal (Chapter forty five)

**Rating:** M for graphic violence against a child and language (in the first chapter, chapter 8 and chapter 10 so far. Chapter 28 has Reid discussing specific acts of abuse but not at length.)

**Fandom:** Criminal Minds

**Summary:** Spencer Reid, 10, is removed from his father's "care" after being violently attacked and is fostered by his old mentor, Jason Gideon. This is a sequel to "That's me in the corner". Features child abuse, do not read if underage.

**Author's Note: **This story is dragging on and on (sorry), but a lot of this stuff is really hard to write and I have to be in the right mood, emotionally or it falls flat... but it should be a lot easier to finish now, as I FINALLY have a computer. It is a pentium 4 from 2002 with 1.99 GB of RAM. Nicest machine I have ever owned (sadly, that is all too true, and no, I don't have a cell phone, and yes, that is funny). I have named my computer "Bertha", and she is a real old donkey of a girl. I like to pet her on the tower when she starts whirring and I say "shh, shh old girl. It's okay if it takes 5 minutes to open up Facebook. I know you are doing your best." I don't even have Word on this thing (seriously, I only have Word Pad and it doesn't auto-correct my spelling) so I will quickly scan over for glaring typos but I am not much of a speller by nature and I recently broke my eye glasses so... yeah. Please go easy. That is neither here nor there, though. My sister wants me 1) to really, *really* get into "The Mentalist" and 2) write her some epic Mentalist fan fic and I told her NO WAY... until I finish at least this story (and hopefully This is my Last Resort, as well). I hate leaving stuff unfinished.

Ugh... yeah, **story starts below. **

* * *

_**"There is no failure except in no longer trying." - Elbert Hubbard**_

He was crying. His voice kept rising into hysteria, and he was imploring the silent trees around him for help. Part of him was right in the middle of his misery, right dab _fucking _stuck in the middle of all that huffing and crying and running snot and pounding head and rising fear. Another part of him was completely still and silent, watching, almost amused. Utterly detached. Taking notes.

"I know it was stupid, okay? They are going to send me to a reform school. Kids get raped in those places! They get beaten to death by guards! Or... or..." Reid stopped yelling at the trees, at the invisible spectators, and gazed up at the sky. It was full day now, egg-shell blue. The sky was mocking him, being so damn pretty, clouds dusted across the atmosphere like strips of white cotton candy.

He was physically and mentally exhausted, and yet, he couldn't stop moving. His legs wouldn't stop moving. He still held the gun, and now, silently tapped it against the side of his head, face red and puffy and covered in various fluids, snot and saliva dripping down the front of him in a slow little rivulet. Reid choked out a moan and tilted his head, spit a wad of egg-white thick saliva into the underbrush. _God. He was going to be in so much trouble. His father would say: "See? What did I tell you? He's like his mother, mentally unstable. I never touched him. He's a nut like her! He made it up! I don't know why he did, but he did. His mother brought him to the hospital, right? That's all I know. I never touched him. Never hurt him. Never-" _And Gideon, maybe Gideon would think differently and maybe even believe his father and maybe they would believe his father's lies, that his mother was responsible for his injuries, or at the very least this might create reasonable doubt and get his mother into trouble... and the burns, the marks, the fears. They would all become Spencer's fault. They would completely shun him. Lock him up in a kiddie funny farm. Send him to Boot Camp for _little fucking liars and_...

Reid moaned out loud again and broke out another croupy sob. Gideon wouldn't want him anymore. If they found him, they'd probably haul him off to the funny farm. Maybe give him electric shocks? His mother had told him once about ECT, about how they now used drugs to put a person to sleep before the procedure but how it still caused the same brain damage. ECT was a government plot to damage the brains of intellectuals and political dissenters, part of the Illuminati's plan to manage opposition without attracting too much unwanted attention to itself. Of course, Diana Reid had also told her son about the shame and the fear and the way ECT had felt before the sedatives were used._ "It's like being hit with lightning, Spencer, being hit with lightning as punishment. Not as treatment. Looking down at you, you don't see the faces of doctors, Spencer, but of your executioners, your tormenters. I am sure most alien abduction mythology comes from people's repressed fears of being medically tortured. You get hit with that lightning and there is a moment, where your body seizes, right before you lose consciousness, and you can feel a tiny bit of yourself slipping away forever, because the establishment thinks you're bad and because they have the power to do it. You can feel something precious being electrocuted right out of existence in you, like a piece of your soul, being jolted away into nothingness. You are never the same after, that so-called therapy kills a piece of you, of your soul. Your actions were outside the bounds of normal social protocol and that imbued these all-sacred doctors with the legal right to damage your brain with electricity. You give them this right, Spencer, when you act in extreme and unpredictable ways. Make sure you learn from my mistakes, Spencer. If you're going to go crazy, go crazy without letting anyone else see. Don't let them ever take any of the real you away." _

His mother had been so somber, so hauntingly composed during this speech. She had tapped her temple with one slender, elegant finger. "_You can't ever get this back if you lose it. Or if they take it. Don't give them a reason. You keep what's yours, Spencer. As long as you can. You die all you, you promise me that. Promise me."_

He had promised her. He had been five years old, only vaguely aware of the concepts of mental illness, of the soul. But he had known his mother wanted him to agree, that what she was telling him was important. And he had nodded. He had promised.

Reid moaned again and coughed and suddenly was leaning over, crying even harder (if that was possible) into the ground, mucous and saliva and foamy bile dripping out of his mouth in strands. A second later he threw up the food in his stomach, which wasn't much. The bile and stomach acids burned the back of his throat and the inside of his nose, his sinuses. He sucked back, trying to draw the chunky bits of partially digested pop tart vomit out of his nose, hawked the loogie miserably into the foliage. Reid remained bent over on his knees for a minute, heart racing wildly, crying as hard as he had ever cried in his life, unable to stop. Something felt so badly hurt and betrayed and broken in him, and the pain was swirling around him, he was marathon-crying. If someone had asked him at that moment what exactly he was upset about, he wouldn't have known what to say. No one particular issue had brought on this flood, and yet, everything had. It was all too much. The fear, the threats, the stories and loneliness and his past and the future. Each segment of fear wrapped together into a coil around his chest, crushing him, making it hard to breathe. He had a mental image of his fears and anxieties and shame- every threat he'd ever heard, every frightening and painful memory- each one was a strand of steel. These strands were wrapping, invisible, around his chest. Linking up to each other, braiding together like cables. Tightening. _Tightening_. Chocking the life out of him just as surely as a boa constrictor chokes the life out of its prey. Every time Spencer Reid tried and made an effort and mentally fought back, he got a little more exhausted, a little more weary, and the cables tightened again.

Just like a boa.

Reid gasped as a sharp bolt of pain hit him in the side of the head, shocking and sudden as an icepick. The pain branched down his skull, down his neck and across his arm. It pulsed in his chest, in his heart, throbbing. Sharp pain. Reid sucked in air, moaned. His fingers dug anxiously into the spongy, black earth below him. He was either having some sort of stroke or cerebral incident or he was having a panic attack that was manifesting itself as a prolonged icepick headache.

Fuck. _Fuck_. Reid ground his eyes shut, squeezed them so tight, fingers digging through the earth as if trying to uncover something, scrabbling and digging for peace. Psychedelic colours lept and flashed in front of his open eyes. Peace would not be found hidden in the cold black earth off the shoulder of some highway, some interstate, in Virginia. Reid dug anyway, not caring, not sure why this pain was so sharp and why he couldn't stop crying, why he was here in this body with this mind right now, _right now... why?_ Why was he _him_? Why wasn't he somebody else? The pain continued to pulse but was lessening now, starting to die away. The bursts of white and fuchsia and turquoise behind his eyelids weren't so bright. The feelings that he was going to faint or collapse or grey out and otherwise fall onto the ground were dissipating. Blood came back into his head, and with it a sudden hot, prickly sensation over his cheeks, his lips. His throat worked spasmodically and his mouth was once again full of burning salty bile. He spit. Kept his eyes closed. Spit. The taste remained.

The taste of puke.

And more than that, of blood.

Reid licked his lips, felt his nose running more snot. He wiped at it and his hand came away bright red. Like he'd just dripped paint all over it, except his nose was bleeding, burning, but he couldn't remember hitting his nose. It continued to bleed and the sudden trickle increased, drip drip drip into the black, silent earth. Red drops falling, hitting the ground, sinking dark and silent back to Earth. Iron back to carbon. We all return to the Earth. Red circles on black.

His brain, skittering and scattering, prayed in Spanish, and he heard himself speaking: _Dios, estoy tan cansado. No puedo seguir. Por favor me ayude. Mi alma está cansado. Amén._

Was he having a breakdown? What was this? Inside his head, his own id was laughing at him, the part of himself which had always kept him company so that he was never alone, the creative part of his mind he had always spoken to when he was scared and hurting, that part was now laughing hysterically, mockingly, like a hyena. His body felt weird, weak and bloodless and electrified with energy all at once. His hands and legs twitched, wanting to crawl away from the torso they were attached to. He was dimly aware that his eyes were still crying, but the tears were starting to ebb. His hands were covered in black earth, dirty and alien looking. Still digging in the ground for... what exactly?

Reid had the instant mental image of uncovering a child's skeleton. Of being Gideon, haunted and tormented on a case, and digging small remains up and out of the abyss of a crime scene: off-white sticks in the lonely blackness, hidden like something shameful and bad. The thought was terribly sad, too sad for words. It wouldn't leave him, that mental image of small, hidden bones. In his head, the mental image of that young, strange skeleton began to laugh, too. Keening, cloying, braying donkey laughter. Mandible and maxible lined with milk teeth chattering against each other, laughing _(it's not so bad being one of us Spencer, really_) calling his name.

Spencer Reid had the strange and altogether terrifying sensation of being in a psychic sinkhole, of drowing on the inside, of sinking. It was disorienting and quite unlike anything he'd ever experienced before, although the unreality of severe panic came closest. He continued to dig. Dig. He didn't know what else to do. The sense of having gone indelibly and permanently insane would not leave him.

* * *

Gideon broke every speed limit getting to the diner, Hotch on his tail. There were two police cars already there, one officer chatting with what was obviously the trucker who had found Reid shooting up his truck. Gideon frowned, exhaled deeply and got out of the car. Flipped open his badge as ID, showed them his FBI ID. The trucker and cop, both, looked up surprised.

"The FBI is involved over the kid shooting at my truck?" The trucker's eyes were bugging out.

"I'm the boy's foster father, Jason Gideon. That, behind me is his lawyer, Aaron Hotchner," Gideon motioned Hotch. "You say he left his backpack? I would like to see it immediately-" Before he had even finished speaking another officer had carried over Reid's pack. Gideon's stomach knotted tighter. He had known, logically, that this whole scenario involved Reid but seeing Reid's backpack made everything somehow so much more real. Gideon's eyes narrowed on a button that caught the sunlight attached in Reid's bag. A cartoon worm with huge spectacles and a goofy grin, the bubble words declaring "I am a book worm!" Gideon swallowed heavily.

"Can you quickly tell me everything he did? Said? He has the gun? He ran away _only_ with the gun?"

Gideon shuffled through the backpack, still firing questions at both the trucker and the state trooper, the latter who had, until then, been in charge of this mess. Hotch was talking to the other cops, the other witnesses. Gideon found the diary, pulled it out, flipped it open. Read quickly, eyebrows creasing with concern.

"I was in the diner eating, heard one of the guys say there was some little kid playing up on the truck. I came out. Right as I pulled him off the truck I heard the gun, he fired at the lock. Had this real crazy look in his eyes, said something about me not knowing how scared the pigs were. Back in 69? I was in Nam? Had a buddy in my unit, he went missing for 2 weeks, came back all banged up and never said a word again far as I know, but he had the same crazy look in his eyes as this kid, right? I seen that look before, sir, but not often, and never in a kid and he had a gun... told me to stay away. I knew better than to argue with someone who looks like that. Then he turned and ran really fast, in that direction-" The trucker pointed to the expanse of tree-dotted brush before them. Gideon was nodding. Turned to the cop who had remained silent up until then.

"He is terrified. You guys have dogs? If he is out there alone with a loaded gun..." Gideon spoke past the fear, in full FBI agent mode. "We need to find him sooner rather than later."

"We can get two bloodhounds here within the hour," the police officer said sternly. Gideon scanned the expanse of trees. Tried to imagine what state Reid would be in by now, out there, alone, brain racing with horrible, fear-inducing thoughts. Reid was far more anxious and scared than even he, Jason Gideon, FBI profiler, had originally given him credit for. Right now, Gideon had to assume he was highly distraught and feeling trapped and hopeless, and despite his obvious desire to live at any costs, having shot at the pig truck had changed everything. Reid would view his own actions as an assault on others and would be expecting retribution, be expecting... Gideon shut his eyes. Exhaled slowly. God knew what the kid was thinking at this point.

"An hour might very well be too long. He is highly distraught. His father is trying to legally reclaim him, and this boy has been physically and sexually tortured," Gideon's eyes were sharp on the police officer. The trooper's eyes widened, just a bit, in shock and concern. Gideon licked his lips, tried to work spit back into his mouth. "I did not forsee him running away, and I profile criminals for a living. But I did not see this scared little boy as being this scared. He now has lost his bag, which he had packed for survival on the road. His running-away plans are shot. He has my service weapon, and we have to assume, it is fully loaded minus one cartridge. He will be feeling scared and panicked and cornered. He wants to live, don't get me wrong," Gideon smiled despite himself. The smile felt strange and almost manic on his face given the situation. "He _really_ wants to live, but he is extremely bright and is going to be running all sorts of scary potential outcomes through his mind which may seem more scary than, than.. harming himself. He is going to assume he is in trouble. He might be building all sorts of unlikely scenarios in his head, but in this state, they will seem plausible. We need to find him _now_. He needs to know he is not in trouble, that nothing has changed, and that he will not be arrested or hurt or sent back to his father. I need you to repeat what I have told you here to the other police officers on this case, and anyone else who comes after to help look for him. I need a bullhorn. Do you have one?"

The trooper nodded, looking a little dazed by Gideon's quick, but complete, speech. He raced over to his car, popped the trunk and came back just as quickly with the bullhorn.

"In that direction?" Gideon pointed to where the trucker had initially pointed, even though he already knew. The trucker nodded. Gideon took off at an almost-run, turned the megaphone on. Began to speak. Knew Reid would hear him long before they would see each other and desperately hoped his voice, his reassurances, would help stabilize the kid until he had him in visual range.

Gideon desperately hoped his voice would calm Reid down and comfort him and reassure him and that Reid hadn't already... _no._ His brain wouldn't go there. Superstitious or not, he could not afford to jinx anything.

Besides, nobody had reported hearing any gunshots, and the sound of a gun going off carried quite a distance. Reid had shot the pig truck and run away maybe (_maybe!_) 45 minutes ago. How far could he run on a newly-healed leg in 45 minutes? Probably would be crying, disoriented, falling over, not going straight.

Please God... make him be all right.

* * *

He had cried himself out and felt stangely numb. The horrible, crushing sadness and frustration that had been in his veins was ebbing away, as if it had been contained in his tears and, with them shed all over his face and shirt and the ground, the sadness had dissipated. The blood down the front of his face and shirt had dried and was starting to gum and crack in places. He wiped his face and felt the blood smear. He had coughed up more bile and spat more snotty spit onto the ground and that seemed to wrench away a little more of the despair, the frustrated, cornered hysteria. Or maybe he was just too physically tired now to be upset anymore. Maybe his body had worn itself out for the time being and was recharging for yet more panic and shame and sadness later on. Could that be possible? Spencer Reid knew perfectly well that it wasn't only possible, it was plausible. It was what was going to happen, what always happened. He didn't always cry- in fact, until coming to live with Gideon, had almost _never_ cried- but his bad feelings cycled. They would be with him most of the time like a lead blanket weighing him down, making it hard to breathe, but when things got too much he would numb out. His body and mind were too tired, at moments, to continue feeling bad. The badness always came back, though. Always. It hadn't been dealt with, it hadn't been properly dug out of his brain. It festered in his mind like psychic pus, psychic gangrene. He had been upset and ashamed and panicky his entire life, and while periods of numbness came over him during the worst of it, the bad feelings always came back. The bad feelings got tired, his body got tired. Both recharged. And they came back. Always. The panic and sadness and shame, they would be back. He could count on it. Just like his father always came back.

Reid spat again, smiled blandly at the sky. His vision was blurry, but when did blurry vision matter when one was looking at the sky? What need was there for cirrus clouds to be in focus? But, where were his glasses? Why wasn't he wearing them?

Reid chewed his lip, then remembered.

He had put them in his backpack before approaching that damned fucking sonofabitch pig truck. He had left them with his backpack. He had left his pack on the ground by the feet of that flabbergasted slack-jawed trucker. His future, that was what he had so blithely abandoned in the form of that backpack; he'd run from any hope he had of continuing. He hadn't expected to be pulled off the back of the truck, though. He had expected having enough time to open the doors and free the pigs and jump off the back and run away with his pack. Hell. He'd had vague visions of running off into the Virginia countryside with the pigs themselves. But that hadn't been how events had turned out. That stupid trucker had fucked everything up.

And the pigs would still be taken to slaughter, they would still squeal and scream and die so people could eat their roasted flesh and say, lips shining with hot grease over cups of orange juice and coffee, "Isn't this good bacon, honey?"

Those pigs would die horrible, panicked deaths just for someone else to have the luxury of stuffing their fat faces with something that tasted good.

Reid shut his eyes, and thought of the pigs and their haunted brown almost-human eyes and barked out laughter. It wasn't funny. Of course it wasn't funny. But his body was too tired to cry and still not numb enough to do absolutely nothing. Reid lay the gun on the ground beside him, muzzle pointed toward the tree line. He ground the palms of both his hands into his eyes until he saw sparks of grey and electric blue and rocked slightly on the spongy earth, on his knees. His legs felt cold and numb through the damp fabric of his sweatpants. His sweats were streaked with mud. He'd lost his backpack. There was no hope. He had no money. No glasses. Nothing but his despair (currently catching its breath, but boy oh boy would that despair be back!) and the clothes he wore and Gideon's gun. 11 bullets in that gun. That was 10 more than he needed.

Those pigs... Reid allowed his body to sway into two more rocks. Those pigs. He had failed them. He had failed Gideon. He had run and Gideon, on some level, would feel he wasn't trusted, that he, Spencer Reid, boy genius, had effectively said that he wasn't a good enough foster father. Gideon would feel betrayed, emotionally. And hurt. Wouldn't understand him, Reid, anymore. If he went back with Gideon (_if Gideon even still wanted him, which, come on be serious... you can't really think he still wants you Reid, can you?_) it would only be for a few more weeks, before the courts almost certainly shuttled him back home to Daddy Dearest. Reid was certain of that fact.

His father, one way or another, would get him back. Reid considered what might happen if he acted totally crazy, totally out of control. Would they hospitalize him? What if he did something super crazy, like running at the police gnashing his teeth like a rabid dog? Reid picked the gun back up and looked at it, took in every line, every crease, every groove. Someone, somewhere, at some point in time had sat down and designed this gun. Line by line, millimeter by millimeter, somebody (or, more likely, a lot of somebodies) had designed this weapon with the consideration and sensibility of an artist... but in reality? At the end of the day? A gun was still a gun. Were there really people out there who appreciated the artistry and design of guns? Or were there only people who liked guns, liked the power and status of having them, and therefore came up with ancillary justifications for gun ownership?

The distinction was important.

Did Gideon like this gun, or was it just a requirment of his job? Just something he had to hold onto in order to profile criminals and help others? Reid wasn't sure.

Gideon didn't seem like the type of man who would like guns in and of themselves, who would like guns as weapons alone. Gideon was lacking that blood-thirsty, trigger-happy machismo the 10-year-old was pretty sure was the hallmark of a "typical, red-blooded Amerrrricun." But one could never be too sure. Maybe Gideon really did like hunting killers. Maybe he was a profiler for the same exact reason hunters stalked deer through forests in camouflage and sociopaths stalked humans. When it came right down to it, maybe humans were predatory by nature, always going after the weaker, the diseased, the helpless. Always stalking, always hunting. Waiting for weakness. If not to kill or hurt, then to humiliate, to gain the upper hand, to win an argument or appear the "coolest" or the :"smartest". Always at someone else's expense, though.

God, he hoped not. Because if that were true, he, Spencer Reid, was even more alone. He had never had the conscious urge, even for a second, to stalk or hunt anything. To sneak up on anyone, to scare anyone. He'd pranked Rossi and even Gideon, but that had been more about getting a smile out of them and appearing like a "normal" kid than anything else. Reid had to be honest with himself. There were lots of predators around... if he was being honest with himself he knew they came in all shapes and sizes. Not just serial killers and child abusers, but socially accepted predators. People running at each other aggressively on football fields, hell, even Chess was an intellectual form of stalking, of trying to take the power away from somebody else, piece by piece. What was a checkmate if not another form of hitting someone in the face? _Checkmate. Boom. I killed your King. Or, rather, I would have killed your KIng if we weren't playing Chess and I wasn't pretending to be civilized. _

Reid bit his lip harder.

Thought of the cut-throat business world, of highschool social dynamics, of wars. What was war if not government-sanctioned mass murder? Humans inherently seemed to be locked in a fierce power struggle with each other, and for most of the time. Most of them, anyway.

Reid considered the gun again, rootbeer-brown eyes shining. He considered the finality of death, of what he viewed death to be. This would be a fast, quick way out. No more panic, no more pain. Certainly religious delusions of Heaven and Hell, Gehenna, Hades, Elysium or _whatever_ and sentient Gods who judged the souls of mortals were just that; delusions. And if the world was so shitty, and the game was so rigged and he was suffering and couldn't pull himself out of the mire then where was the nobility in holding on? Wasn't holding on at this point a form of cowardice, of merely contiuing to exist because he didn't have the balls to make a decision that couldn't be undone? Wasn't it poor etiquette? In the game of life, he was in check. Checkmate was inevitable. It was time to tip over his King.

Reid shut his eyes. He knew he was weak. Knew he was a coward. He wanted to live, true, but in his gut he also knew that living would probably bring nothing but more pain. History was full of figures who suffered to the extreme and fought to better themselves and died alone and crazy and scared and tortured. History was full of tortured souls who, by all outward appearances, hadn't done a damn thing to deserve their angst. So why put up with it? He hadn't had any say over being born, or of being born to his parents, or of being abused. But he had say over right now, if he continued to go on, continued to draw oxygen into lungs that would use it to re-oxygenate blood that would keep his quivering body alive. A body that contained a brain that felt an inordinate amount of shame and despair and fear.

Why continue on, why keep this body alive? At the end of the day, wasn't that just a form of masochism, when the game was so rigged and the Earth was so bad and so scary and so depressing?

Reid lifted the gun. Looked down the muzzle. He was staring down infinity, looking down that muzzle. Was everything fated? Some people thought so. That from the moment of the Big Bang, every action in the universe could be predicted by physics, forever and ever. Fate. No free well. Just a hugely complicated scenario that humans could not predict because there were too many factors. But just because there were too many factors and unknowns to predict all events accurately, did not mean there was such a thing as free will. It just meant that fate carried an air of mystery to it. If he killed himself, would it, then, even be his choice? Would he be doing it, or would it simply be a cause and effect of fate, of atoms behaving as they were destined to behave all along? Reid didn't know. The idea of everything being fated was both comforting and numbing. There was no deeper meaning to life if people simply did what they must. If that were true, then they were simply automatons, reacting on a physical level, from the moment of conception. Nothing mattered, if that were the case. Life had no meaning. Death had no meaning.

But if there were free will? If, somehow, the universe wasn't as straight forward as many believed, if there were elements beyond the purely physical that could not be understood, which behaved in a way outside of human comprehension? Free will was possible in that sort of system. But... he would never know. He couldn't know. He had lain awake hundreds of hours in his short life, contemplating such matters and they were fundamentally unknowable. He knew he would never come to resolve any of them- not the truly Big Questions- and yet, his brain continued to ask them anyway.

But he did know he was hurting. That he had lost his backpack. He'd run from Gideon. He'd run from what seemed like destiny and fate... or _whatever... _had left him with nothing but his sorry self and Gideon's nearly loaded handgun. Didn't that mean something? That he had tried to do something good for those poor pigs, and had ended up losing everything he had left, except a way out of this whole mess? Wasn't that about as clear a sign from the Gods as there was that the game was unfair, that trying to be kind, to be decent, left you with nothing? Reid was damned sure he didn't want to live in a world where trying to be compassionate ended up leaving you worse off. And he also knew he would refuse to live in a world where the only other option was to become a predator. There was only one more option, as he could see it, and that was ending the game. Sure, the world wasn't black and white, everything existed on a continuum, but even the continuum seemed rigged.

And he was so, so tired.

Reid closed his eyes briefly. Rubbed the gun against his face. It wasn't so bad. Just metal. Just a tool. He inched it slowly toward his temple, hand shaking with fear, trying to remain detached. Why was a gun any scarier than dying old and alone in bed, while asleep? In the end, did it matter? Dead was dead and it was the final outcome for everyone. That made life, ipso facto, utterly and completely ridiculous.

Reid opened his eyes. Took in the scene around him, the trees, the beautiful sky. Forced himself to smile. He didn't want to die without smiling one more time.

It was then that he heard Gideon's voice.

* * *

"Reid, it's Gideon! You are not in trouble. Stay where you are. If you can hear this, please call. Iw ill come to you. We can work this out. You are not in any trouble. We can fix this. You won't go back to your father..." Gideon's face sounded much too calm to his own ears, reflected through the amplification of the bullhorn. He stopped speaking and got his breath, took a deep breath. He was walking about as fask as he could, eyes scanning, flanked by two cops on his right side each about 30 feet apart and Hotch and another cop on his left, combing the ground.

"Agent Gideon?" One of the cops said, and Gideon glanced over. The cop was hunching down over a bicycle. Reid's bicycle. Gideon nodded.

"That's his bike. He has to be near here," Gideon assured the cop. Reid had to be near here. He had to be. Would Reid call out? Or would he become paralyzed with shame and apprehension and stay quiet, or keep running?

Gideon pressed the trigger on the bullhorn again and his voice once again lit up the atmosphere. The air around him felt charged, the way it did when it was full of ozone, right before lightning. A chill ran down his spine. They were all searching, but so far, no sign of Reid. They were moving too slowly.

"Reid. You are not in trouble. You will not go back to him. You will stay with me. Please, pal, please, if you can hear me, I want you to call out, please-" Gideon let his index finger pop off the trigger. He couldn't afford to sound desperate. If he sounded desperate Reid would hear it, and Reid would hear the fear behind that desperation and God only knew how Reid would interpret his fear. As a sign of dishonesty? As a trap? The kid was running scared, and running on fumes and obviously not acting rationally. He had to be calm. He had to be reassuring and keep it together. On either side of him the police were calling for Reid now, calling him Spencer. "_Spencer Reid? Where are you Spencer?"_ Hotch was silent, eyes scanning intently and reminding Gideon ever so slightly of a bird of prey.

"Reid, buddy, it's Gideon. It's Jason. I know you are scared. I know you feel so tired of worrying, of not knowing what is around the next corner, of not knowing who you are going to live with and what is going to happen to you and if your Dad is going to get you back. If he does, what is going to happen to you. If he will hurt you again. I will not let him, Reid. I promise you." His voice thundering through the autumnal leaves, so loud, so solemn. Like the voice of God Himself.

"Reid, if you can hear me, you have to call out. Then I can take you home with me. Back to my home. Back to _our_ home. You can rest. And I can tell you the changes, now, how Hotch has promised me you will not go back to your father, how it has been worked out with the judge, but you have to call out."

Aaron Hotchner shot Gideon a dark look at that. There was no guarantee of anything, but all Gideon could see in his mind's eye was Reid hysterical and alone and physically, mentally and emotionally exhausted. His spirit exhausted, too. Reid alone and in that state with a nearly loaded gun, and in that scenario Hotch would have to suck it up, because a lie that kept Reid alive in a crisis was utterly and perfectly okay.

"Reid, I need you to call out when you hear this. I need you to call. Things will be okay, buddy. Things will be okay, but you have to call out, you have to let me know where you are. Things will be okay."

It was then that he heard the voice, carried through the leaves, maybe 200 feet away by the sound of it.

_"Liar! You're lying! You're lying to me! Nothing will ever be okay! Stop lying to me! Will everyone just please stop lying to me?"_

Reid was still alive. His voice sounded hoarse and depleted of energy, on its last legs and yet he was still alive, still protesting. He would not give up without a fight. Gideon let a small, frantic smile spread across his lips. His brisk walk morphed into a moderate jog in the direction of that exhausted, weary little voice. _"You are lying to me. Gideon!"_

"I am not lying to you, Reid. I am not lying, I swear it. Everything will be okay, Reid. It will. You have to believe me. I would not lie to you after all this, after all we have been through together. Please trust me on that. Please believe in something, Reid. Believe me, please, buddy, I will not let you ever be hurt again and-"

_"Stop lying to me!"_ Closer now._ "Just stop lying!"_

Gideon closed the distance in what felt like a single heart beat. He heard one of the cops shout "over here!" and his body flew in that direction and then stopped in its tracks. The scene before him was heart-breaking.

Reid was sitting with his back against a tree. His little face was dirty, clean streaks on his cheeks that had been cut by tears. Dried blood had pooled and crusted in his philtrum and a bit shone on his lips, then again that thick, bright red on his chin, his shirt. His eyes were red, his eyelids so puffy and swollen it almost looked like he was having a serious allergic reaction to something. A pale blue-purple bruise was forming on the side of his face, right on the edge of his eye socket. Had Reid fallen? Had a tree limb hit him in the face? Reid's hands were stained with black earth, resting over his knees with the Sig grasped so tightly in those mud streaked little fingers. Reid's clothes were filthy. Gideon's eyes shot to the gun held so nonchalantly in the 10-year-old's left hand. Reid's eyes locked on Gideon's then, and in those eyes Gideon could see the depths of Reid's hopelessness, his despair. The fear that had been bright and alive in the little boy's eyes for so many weeks had faded and left behind a bitter, dark despair.

The cops and Hotch were utterly still, utterly silent but Gideon could feel each pair of eyes focused on Reid. Nobody wanted to move, wanted to say anything or say the wrong thing. Nobody wanted to be responsible for causing Spencer Reid to lose it completely, not when he had that loaded gun and was obviously on the tail end of a severe crying jag.

Gideon took a silent, deep breath. Said another silent prayer.

"Reid, give me the gun. I am not lying to you. I am not lying. I will not let you go back to him. Nobody will ever hurt you again." His voice, so calm, so self-assured. Reid blinked heavily and Gideon could see that he was almost out of gas. Reid scratched the side of his temple with the muzzle of the gun, a visual display that he was not afraid to play with a loaded, deadly weapon. A silent warning: _you better take me seriously. All of you better take me seriously._

"You're just saying that," Reid said softly. So tired. So weary. Gideon glanced over at Hotch, who was staring sharply at the boy, hands in front and open. "You are just saying that Gideon. So that my death is not on your watch. Last time at the shelter, remmember? When you first met me, and we became friends?"

Gideon nodded, willing Reid to continue. If Reid was talking, Reid wouldn't be shooting himself. Just keep him talking.

"Yeah, I remember. A little over 2 years ago. You were 8."

"That's right. They took me away, and I thought when they took me that I was safe then. For the first time in my life, I felt safe for a little bit," Reid shut his eyes, remembering, but all of them knew better than to rush the kid. He could shoot himself dead long before they touched him. "I felt safe for a little bit, Gideon, I did. It was a feeling I wasn't used to. I didn't know what it was, feeling safe. I even wondered for a few weeks if maybe I had developed temporal lobe epilepsy, that's how much I didn't know what feeling safe was." Reid opened his eyes again. The lower lids held tears. He blinked and the tears puddled over, spilled over and streamed silently down his cheeks. He was the epitome of sadness, of hopeless forlorn despair. His giant eyes were so tired, and yet searching Gideon's face for something. His giant eyes were full of heart-breaking questions. Gideon forced himself to nod, to show that he was listening, that he was trying to understand. Reid winced inwardly at the memory, grimaced. A pale, heartless laugh.

"How stupid of me that I thought I was safe. How stupid I was. How incredibly stupid."

"You've never been stupid, Reid. Not for a second." Gideon's voice was firm, strong. He believed this, 100% Reid blinked again and another fat tear rolled down his cheek. The tear hung from his cheek for a moment before deciding to fall.

"Oh, but I was. I _really_ thought I was safe. I thought I would never have to face that again, my dad drunk and out of control and hurting me like that. I even daydreamed about foster homes. I tried to be realistic in my daydreams, though. I knew me being adopted right off the bat was unlikely, you see. A highly intelligent, disturbed and anxious 8 year old was not exactly the _tabula rasa_ of a newborn baby. But still," Reid's voice cracked. "I still let myself relax. I daydreamed about living in a crowded foster home or group home for boys in Vegas, taking the city bus home to see Mom once a week or being driven by my hypothetical foster parents, seeing her, hugging her, discussing my week, having the child safety worker shoot Mom stern looks if she started talking crazy," Reid stopped. Smiled. Wistful. Wistful about a hypothetical imagined childhood that was still miles from ideal. "Kids have such crazy imaginations." Reid's voice was soft.

Gideon risked a glance at Hotch. He was pale. Obviously shook up by Reid's words.

"I am sorry the system let you down so badly, Reid," Gideon said, stepping closer. Reid seemed to not care, so Gideon chanced another step. Crouched down five feet from Reid on his haunches.

"Not your fault," Reid said unnecessarily. He sighed. He seemed so calm, so rational but Gideon knew that severe exhaustion like this could be incredibly deadly. It was times like these when people undergoing crises seemed to be emotionally stabilized, when they were eerily composed, that a sudden jerk of the hand could end their lives. Reid was calm, and that was the problem. His words were heartbreaking, but his demeanor was too composed, too satisfied. It was a huge flashing warning sign.

Gideon could remember once talking to a young a man who had survived months of on-again, off-again torture at the hands of a sadistic serial killer. They had raided the killer's underground "work shop" and shot him dead before he could execute his victim, but the young man had grabbed the gun up and put it to his own head. Gideon had tried to talk him down, but the emaciated shell of a college student had calmly told them that his life was over. That he could never come back from this, the madness he had faced. Gideon tried to tell him he could, that there was help. The young man, Raymond Paul Riley, had nodded sadly, as if in agreement, and had slowly lowered the gun. Gideon had stepped forward to take it when the 22-year-old rethought his position on the matter. He blew the back of his head off inside of a second and died with a strangely peaceful smile on his dehydrated lips.

Gideon sought at Reid's eyes. He had to see Reid's eyes.

"I know it wasn't my fault. I meant, I regret how much you have suffered, Reid," Gideon stopped. Reid was watching him dispassionately.

"Not going back. And now you're here and there is no more time for me to even think about it. I go back with you and I might be safe. Probably, I won't. There is no safety in this world," Reid's words, so calm, so certain. He licked his lips. "Or I go now, and that is that."

_Go now_. Meaning: _suicide._ Meaning: _shooting his brains out all over the back of that god damned laurel tree._

"I'm sorry, Gideon. I can't go back to that again. I _won't_," Reid's hand, the hand holding the gun, jerked the gun up. "I am so sorry."

It was at that moment Gideon decided to share his own demons with Reid. Shit that he had kept from the bureau shrinks after his breakdown, after that god damned hellish summer of 1983 when all that lay ahead in the future, in Gideon's estimation, was pain and nightmares and suffering. Shit that, if admitted to, could potentially cost him his badge. Especially with Hotch and the coppers watching. But what was a job worth if Reid snuffed himself?

"Reid! I know how you are feeling! I have been there! Where you are right now. Don't you want to know how I know things will get better? I know you want to know how I can know with any certainty that they will get better, so I should share some things with you. My own demons. Stuff I didn't want to burden you with before. But if you're going to... if you're going to kill yourself.. don't kill yourself before I can share my experience, okay? Because it might influence your decision. Just hear me out?"

Reid, gun halfway to his head, stopped. Blinked.

"This better not be a trick," He said softly. "I will know if you are tricking me."

"I'm not tricking you, Reid. I have been here. It is a very dark place. Not depression. Suicide from depression is what most people are familiar with. Get the patient on medication, in counselling and they are all better, right? No. What I went through, what you are going through, is suicidal ideation that forms despite not being depressed. Suicidal ideation that forms because you actually have been trapped, because your safety is in danger and you can't see any other way out. Because you still are trapped. You want to live, but not to be tortured again." Gideon hoped some of this was getting in. Reid's eyes widened a bit. The gun dropped a few centimeters. Reid nodded.

"It's the same reason people in the death camps ran at the electric fences, isn't it Reid? Because they were hopelessly trapped and a quick death at their own hands, on their terms, was better than being hurt over and over and waiting to die god-knows-how. Right?"

Reid looked almost dazed. As if Gideon had used some previously neglected telepathy to gain entrance to his deepest thoughts. He nodded glumly. Gideon was acutely aware of the tension in the air now. The cops were not just watching Reid, but him also. They were making mental notes. They were witnesses. Nobody said a word.

"Tell me how you knowhow bad it is. How you know it will get better. Tell me." Reid's eyes were desperately searching out his foster father's for something to hold onto, to give him hope. Something to redeem the crushing certitude that quick suicide was the logical and intelligent and most importantly, _correct _course of action here. Reid wanted to believe things would get better. He wanted to believe so badly, that was obvious. He didn't want to die. But he was scared of living. Terrified in fact.

Gideon let his mind go back to that summer, that 8 day period in 1983. 8 days. Not all that long, compared to the other victims. But 8 days had been 80 years in Hell.

He took a deep breath. Began to talk.

* * *

***That's it for this chapter*** This stuff is hard to write, it emotionally drains me trying to write this. I am still finishing this story, but I don't want to rush it and churn out crap. Please review. I am going to start immediately on chapter 46.


	46. Chapter 46: To Hell and Back

**Title:** Losing My Religion by Lexikal (Chapter forty six)

**Rating:** M for graphic violence against a child and language (in the first chapter, chapter 8 and chapter 10 so far. Chapter 28 has Reid discussing specific acts of abuse but not at length.)

**Fandom:** Criminal Minds

**Summary:** Spencer Reid, 10, is removed from his father's "care" after being violently attacked and is fostered by his old mentor, Jason Gideon. This is a sequel to "That's me in the corner". Features child abuse, do not read if underage.

**Author's Note: **Hope you guys like it... we're winding down... please review!

* * *

_**"I have had dreams and I have had nightmares, but I have conquered my nightmares because of my dreams."- Jonas Salk**_

It was the summer of 1983, late August. They'd been working a case in Texas and the heat was deadly, the type of constant, oppressive heat that makes a person feel like they are in an oven. Jason Gideon had been 27 years old and a member of Quantico's Behavioral Sciences Unit for a little over a year and had been an FBI agent for going on three years. He had come to work at the Bureau with a master's in criminology and had originally started off, at the tender age of 24, working blue collar crimes but his superiors had noticed his skills, his ability to talk people down, to get into the minds of those he was hunting, and over time the BSU had requested him. In the year he had been with the BSU he had worked 12 cases. The case that would change his life was lucky number 13, ironic as that was. Ironic, because Jason Gideon had never been a superstitious man, but he remembered one of his fellow team members making a crack about triskaidekaphobia sometimes being sensible. Their S.S.A. had rolled his eyes and told them to focus on the told his buddy that the case would go well, maybe even better than usual simply because superstitious nonsense was superstitious nonsense and people would be assuming it would be Hell, so in comparison it would seem effortless.

The case in question was one that would forever change Gideon's life.

Twin boys in west-central Texas were going missing from their beds at night, or from their schools, or from their boy scout meetings. There one minute, gone the next. Days or weeks later one of the twins in each "set" would turn up dead in a field somewhere, or a ditch. Covered in bruises and cuts, emaciated and dehydrated; dead from a combination of malnutrition and dehydration and multiple injuries. Cause of death in almost all the cases was cumulative stress of exposure, dehydration and shock from multiple non-deadly injuries leading to cardiac arrest. No one factor could be determined to be "the" killer in all but one of the cases. The injuries themselves ranged from scratches and nasty hematomas to broken limbs and razor cuts. None of the victims were sexually assaulted. Shortly after the body of each twin was found, his brother would turn up, wandering aimlessly on the highway in rags, physically in shock and emaciated and dehydrated. Dehydrated and malnourished and bloody and bruised, but alive. By the time Gideon and his team had arrived, there had been 4 twin sets to experience this madness. None of the surviving twins were speaking, except for one little 8 year old boy named Kevin Marshall who claimed he had been forced to fight his brother, Charlie, "to the death". He spoke of his abductor as a "wolf man" with "red eyes". It was hard to know what in his story was based in reality, what was made up or imagined. The kid had been driven half mad by the experience.

The UnSub was forcing twin brothers to fight each other to the death, that was clear even without Kevin's admission. All the twin sets were identical, monozygotic. There were different theories about whether or not their UnSub was a sadist, or merely a narcissist who was studying his version of epigenetics and trying to ascertain if certain environmental triggers led to increased strength in physically "identical" test subjects. Gideon and his team had worked with Kevin, asking him questions as carefully as possible, but the kid was so out of his mind with grief and guilt that his comments were of relatively little help. Gideon knew twins often had incredibly close bonds, closer than "regular" siblings in many cases, even closer sometimes then the mother-infant bond. The look in Kevin Marshall's eyes was so lost, so insanely lost and twitchy and grief-stricken; eyes darting back and forth and back and forth, as if constantly scanning the room for horrors that were not present. He had developed a habit sometime during his abduction of absent-mindedly scratching himself so hard he bled, as if trying to get out of his own skin; his green almond eyes distant and glazed, mouth perpetually twitching in a half-crazed smile. When gently informed of his scratching he would look down at the marks, deep and often beading blood and smile and stop for a moment, and two minutes later he would be scratching again.

Rossi, who had been on Gideon's team at the time had postulated that maybe the boy was subconsciously punishing himself physically for killing his brother. The guilt, afterall, must have been unbearable. Gideon and the rest of the team had looked for ways the twin pairs might be connected to each other, people that might have had contact with all of them. They were all from Burnet County in Texas. The population in 1983 of Burnet County was 40,000 (approximately) but all the twins were from different cities and towns within that county. The first twin set taken, Dylan and David Monroe, aged 10 and a half, had been from Meadowlakes; Avery and Scott Potter had been from Horseshoe Bay; Kevin and Charles Marshall had been born and raised in Bertram and the last pair to be taken, Todd and Roland McLean had gone missing from their bungalow bedroom in Granite Shoals. The ages of the boys had ranged considerably, too. Dylan and David had been 10 and a half, Avery and Scott Potter had been 14, Kevin and Charlie had been the youngest pair at 8 and Todd and Roland McLean had been 12. A day after Gideon's team arrived, Roland McLean was found dumped in a ditch off the interstate. 5 hours later Todd resurfaced at a Texaco station screaming for help.

Kevin Marshall had been interviewed extensively, as the parents of the other survivors wanted to spare them the trauma of reliving their ordeal.

According to Kevin's testimony, he had been seperated from his brother and caged, forced to go two days and nights without food or water in what appeared to be a "very large and strange barn, painted black". When Kevin and his brother were released from their cages after the first two days solitary confinement in sheer blackness- weak and dizzy from lack of water- the UnSub had provided each boy with a machete and told them to fight. Told them only one boy would walk away, and that if they refused to fight, he would shoot them both point blank and Mommy and Daddy would lose both their precious little angels. Their UnSub had told them that genetically one of them was superior, that there was no such thing as "identical" human beings, that one of the twins was an impostor. Neither boy had moved until the UnSub had aimed the gun at the smaller of the two, Charlie, and fired off a round, missing the kid's head by a few short inches. Charlie had burst into fight or flight mode then, eyes wild and machete raised above his head. Kevin had watched, horrified, as his brother had started to circle him, mouth open, a weird high pitched shrieking coming from the back of his throat. The little boy had told Gideon how his brother, terrified, had run at him with a machete after the Unsub fired the second warning shot. Kevin, always bigger and slightly stronger, and faster, had reacted on impulse and struck at his brother with his own machete. He hit Charlie in the side of the neck, and blood began to spurt out. Charlie looked dazed, the cut went half way through his neck. The blood spurted, according to Kevin Marshall, like "water coming out of a water fountain when a kid puts his thumb over the faucet to spray it". Charlie took one or two steps backward and fell over and was dead. Kevin never got to say sorry, that it was an accident, that he hadn't meant it, that his hands had just moved, he'd just moved in fear. He hadn't meant it.

At that point in the interview Kevin Marshall was sobbing uncontrollably. He lifted his head up wearily and, suddenly, ran at the concrete wall of the interview room. He hit his head as hard as he could in grief and rage and split his scalp open, and Gideon grabbed him when he tried to ram his head a second time. They were in an interview room designed for children and the concrete walls had been painted with bright colours and cartoon animals. Kevin Marshall's self injurious act left a morbid smear of blood hovering over the head of a cartoon tiger. The boy had screamed he wanted to die, head gushing, being held down tightly by the agent on the floor, feet kicking in his all-consuming rage and self-hatred and grief; Gideon's hands firmly wrapped around the tiny wrists as a fellow agent ran for assistance.

They were definitely dealing with someone psychotic, someone driven by delusions of evil. Gideon had informed the team of his convictions after the boy had been sedated and taken to a nearby hospital for stitches. Other team members still debated this, though. Kevin's testimony painted the picture of a crazy Unsub, but Kevin himself was now crazy. In addition, a narcissist wouldn't care about the emotional impact such an experiment would have on the survivors. The experiment was the important part. Just because the suvivors were emotionally devastated by their actions did not necessarily mean they were dealing with an ipso facto sadist. Just because Kevin's speech was riddled with odd phrases and words such as "impostor" did not mean they were dealing with a psychotic. And the lack of sexual abuse seemed to imply that sadism wasn't the likely motivator in these "experiments". That, at least, had been the general consensus. Gideon hadn't been convinced.

If sadism or a psychotic belief in the purity of the survivor was not a motivating factor, Gideon had countered, why not kill the surviving twin when the experiment was over? Why let him live at all, if not to suffer? What could be more torturous than living the rest of one's natural life knowing he had killed his _twin _to save his own skin? As a general rule, scientists killed their test subject animals after the experiment was complete. So why let the "stronger" twins live at all? Gideon had been certain they were dealing with a sadist who was using "science" to rationalize his own sadistic urges. Gideon had also been convinced they were dealing with a sadist who had a bizarre moral code, and thus, felt a need to justify his fantasies somehow. No one else had agreed and the profile went nowhere.

Besides all coming from the same county, and being male monozygotic twins, the kids had relatively little in common. They all came from different socioeconomic and religious groups. They had never met each other. No two pairs had been delivered at the same hospital, or attended the same school. The original profile was based on the theory that their UnSub was a geneticist, or fancied himself to be one and they had combed the area for doctors with write ups for inappropriate behavior or disgruntled medical school drop outs. Nothing. One possible link was found, though, however minor. A 39 year old janitor named Derek Hiller had worked the elementary school where the Marshall twins had attended as well as working, 6 months earlier, at the junior high school where the McLean boys had been enrolled. It wasn't much and Gideon had been sent out with a police officer to talk to Hiller, see if he knew anything, anything at all, that could possibly help the case.

Hiller had eyed them warily behind the screen door of his isolated farm house. He'd appeared mussed, unkempt. His eyes looked bleary. "What do you want?" he grunted out when Gideon had shown his FBI ID. The police officer informed Hiller that they were investigating the murder of children in Burnet county, and that he, Hiller, had worked at two different schools where 4 of the victims had attended.

"I work a lot of different schools, what's that supposed to prove?" This Hiller had hissed through the door. "You don't get laid off from schools. Kids have to stay in school, it's a law. And someone needs to clean up their shitters and throw sawdust on the floor when they toss their cookies."

"We'd just like to talk to you," Gideon said simply, eyes flickering over the man's face.

"What the fuck about?" Hiller's eyes, through the mesh screen, flashed angry and suspicious. "I ain't got nothing to do with those missing kids, so why talk to me?"

"Sometimes people know more than they think they know. Sometimes something a kid says, that you might have overheard for instance, might contain a key piece of information, something that can help us with our investigation. We could really use any information you can remember. Anything at all."

"Why would I want to help you with your investigation?" Hiller sneered, and it was then that Jason Gideon realized the man was drinking. At 9 in the morning, drinking. Gideon blinked. How was he supposed to answer that?

"I'd think you might want to help your community, or the kids who supply you with your work," Gideon said slowly, paying careful attention to Hiller's facial expression and body language. The anger, the early drinking, the outright hostility, all were alarming. Warning bells were starting to sound in Gideon's head. He spared a glance at the local cop who had come with him, and noticed that the cop's body language had changed, too. He was stiffer and straighter and the skin around his eyes was different, it was wary and alert.

Hiller grinned then. A strange, mocking smile. "Run into a brick wall then, haven't you?" His teeth were yellow-brown from years of chain-smoking camels.

Gideon knew, at that moment, that he was looking at their Unsub. Hiller was playing with him.

"I don't pay taxes to do other people's work for them. I know nothing about any missing twins."

"Who said the children that were missing were twins?" Gideon pressed. He could see Hiller's eyes freeze for a second, but he recovered quickly. Gideon was suddenly aware just how alone they were, a good 30 miles out from any other houses, any other buildings. He was alone with a local inexperienced police officer as the rest of his team were back at the police station in Granite Shoals. He wanted to leave, right then and there, but the idea that the latest pair of twins to go missing might still be alive on the property gave him ersatz courage.

"On the news, they said something about twin brothers going missing during a science fair outing for their 6th grade class. Said that maybe their daddy had stole 'em from their mama." Hiller had a strange, almost giddy smile on his face. Gideon knew perfectly well that the man was lying. It was clear, in his eyes. That had never been on the news.

"That's not what happened," Gideon said softly. "Someone much more dangerous and depraved than their daddy took these kids. That is why we need your help."

"I told you I can't help you, so why don't you stop wasting my fucking time and get the hell off my property?" With that, Hiller slammed the door in both Gideon's face and the face of the local police deputy, a soft spoken young man named Michael Anders. Gideon had sighed and started back to their patrol car. He'd use Anders' radio to call his team, tell them his thoughts on Hiller and ask for backup ASAP. On the way back he saw a small barn on the property he hadn't noticed at first, a good half a mile out. Gideon looked at Anders and jerked his head in that direction. The barn was painted black.

"He's our man. The painted-black barn. Just like Kevin Marshall told us."

"Let's get a warrant first," Anders said, eyes dark.

"We leave, and he kills the kids." Gideon ran off in the direction of the barn, not waiting for backup, not caring about anything other than getting those kids home safely. As Gideon crept closer, he saw broken glass on the ground. All over the ground. All around the barn.

Any remaining doubts he'd had as to Hiller's innocence evaporated.

He pointed and Anders bent down, stared at the trail of broken beer bottle glass. Anders picked up a shard of glass. "Is that blood, there?"

It was then that Gideon felt something sting him in the lower back, right above the buttocks. He heard the deputy calling his name with alarm and then there was silence. And then blackness.

* * *

He woke up in blackness. He heard children, young boys, calling him.

_"Wake up, mister. Please, wake up!"_

_"Please, please, wake up. Help us!"_

He groaned and roused and tried to orient himself. He was somewhere damp and cold, concrete under his ass. Not the barn, then. He knew within the span of a minute what had happened. He'd been tranquilized, shot with a dart gun. Gideon tested his voice.

"Boys, I'm an FBI agent. My name is Jason Gideon. What are your names?"

"I'm Vincent."

"Victor Smith."

Vincent and Victor Smith, aged 9 and 2 months. The latest pair to go missing. Gideon exhaled. They were both still alive.

"Where are we, guys? Do you know where we are? Is there anyone else with us down here? Another grown up?"

"Nuh uh." One of the twins said. Silence except for raspy breathing. Then one of the boys broke out crying in the utter blackness.

"We're going to die, aren't we?"

"We're not going to die. My team is going to be looking for us. They will know who took us now. They will come for us."

"But we're somewhere else. He moved us. It's colder here."

"They'll find us. I promise you."

And he had meant it. He had been certain help would come any minute.

It didn't.

* * *

Time stretched and collapsed in on itself. Gideon wasn't sure if he had been in that dark coldness for 6 hours or 60 hours. He knew he was thirsty, but horribly cold. He'd managed to use his shoelaces to cut through the duct tape holding his wrists together by tying one lace across the toes of his boots and moving his knees up in down in a pedalling motion, creating what was called a friction saw. It was an escape technique he had learned in Scouts as a boy, taught by a Scout master who had at one time been a marine and been honorably discharged. When his hands were lose he got on his knees and crawled over the icy concrete, hands moving over the floor seeking information. He felt concrete, with grates, and the circular cold metal of a drain. He crawled through the darkness, felt cage bars and reached a hand through. He felt fingers reach over, touch his. One of the boys.

"Are you guys tied up?"

"No."

"Nuh uh."

"Is there anything near you? Water, or food?"

"Nothing."

"What if we are buried alive?" This said by the same twin, presumably, who had voiced his concern that they would die.

"There is a drain in the floor. Cage bars. Concrete. We aren't buried alive. We have oxygen." Gideon hoped the latter was true, that they hadn't been completely sealed off somewhere. A spark of panic burst up in his chest, his throat. He shut his eyes in the darkness, ordered himself to remain calm. He had kids to keep calm. They were looking to him for direction.

"What if Mr. Hiller kills us?" One of the boys said. Gideon was starting to learn the difference in their voices- one boy had a higher voice, younger, and his brother's voice was raspier, deeper.

"It was Mr. Hiller that took you? Derek Hiller?" Gideon deliberately avoided answering the higher-pitched boy's question.

"Mr. Hiller is the janitor at our school," this said by the raspier twin.

"What do you remember? About being taken? Or brought here?"

"Mr. Hiller gave us a ride home from Cub Scouts. He put our bikes in the back of his truck. Mine and Victor's. Then we woke up in a barn. It was dark, but not this dark. We were there for a long time. Then he came back in, and he was yelling and there was blood on his shirt. He gave me some water. He gave Victor water, too. We drank it, I fell asleep. When I woke up... I was here."

Gideon contemplated this. He'd drugged the kids' water. He'd shot him with a tranq dart. But Anders wasn't in the room and Vincent had reported that Hiller had last been seen with bloody clothes. That didn't bode well for the young police officer's fate.

"Did Mr. Hiller say anything when he gave you the water, Vincent?"

"Nothing."

"He's going to kill us, I just know he is..."

"Victor? Shut up. Shut up already," Vincent snarled in the darkness. The tension was palpable. Gideon sighed, ordered his thoughts. Vincent was getting angry, his twin sounded on the verge of a panic attack.

"Guys, it's okay to be scared. But we need to be strong now. We need to stay alert, and we need to stay ready. That is what FBI agents do when things are scary. I am making you guys honorary FBI agents right now. I know you are scared, but I also know you can be brave. I need you to listen to me, and be really grown up. We're going to get through this, and you're going to go home, and you're going to be heroes, okay?"

"When we go home, will we get an award? Will we get badges?" Victor's voice was trembling.

"Sure," Gideon said easily. "Badges, and medals. And you'll be on TV. Now, this is what I need you guys to do."

And he told them he needed one of them to pretend to be unconscious when Derek Hiller came back. Told him their janitor would have a gun, would give them each a big knife and tell them to fight. Would threaten them with the gun. It was imperative one of them pretend to be unconscious and stay that way no matter what Mr. Hiller said, no matter what threats were made. It was decided that Vincent, the calmer of the two under pressure, would pretend to be unconscious. He would pretend to be in a diabetic coma. He would lie there, he wouldn't move, he wouldn't speak.

After they had worked through their plan, Gideon asked them questions. What were their favourite movies? Games? Books. What did they want to be when they grew up. Vincent wanted to be a fire fighter, Victor wanted to be an entomologist. Gideon spoke to them for nearly 10 hours, he would learn later, and in that 10 hours he got to know each of them quite well.

Then the lights turned on and Gideon saw, instantly, that his guess had been correct. They were in a kill room in a slaughter house, an obviously abandoned slaughter house. Cages had been set up by Hiller no doubt, what amounted to large dog kennels. When the lights went on Victor Smith gave a startled shriek. Gideon glanced around, saw the two boys, each in seperate cages. Victor had his fingers through the cage bars, his eyes were darting quickly. Vincent, true to his word, lay on the dirty concrete unmoving. Victor saw his brother, still and silent, and gasped, apparently having forgotten the plan.

"Vincent?! Vincent! Wake up!"

Or maybe the kid was acting. It was hard to say. "Vincent!"

There was a scraping noise, a door being forced open and Hiller came into the room. His eyes were beady pinpricks of hate and they were focused solely on Jason Gideon.

"You really fucked everything up," Hiller snarled. He marched over to Gideon's cage, saw that the agent had somehow escaped the ties of the duct tape and roared. Kicked the cage Gideon was in.

Victor Smith began to cry and Hiller turned on him and screamed at him to shut the fuck up before turning back to Gideon with insane eyes.

"You fucking demon! You fucked everything up!"

Gideon glanced a look at Victor, who was watching the scene with huge, bloodshot eyes.

"I'm not a demon, Derek," Gideon soothed, holding his hands up and out in a universal display of submission. "I'm not a demon, and neither are these boys. It is not too late to stop this. You can let us go."

Hiller laughed and kicked the cage again. Began to scream obscenities. Began to scream about all twins being haunted, about only one being true. One true person followed into this world by a demon. It happened every time. God did not make mistakes, and he did not make copies. There was no need for copies, if God was perfect. Hiller kicked Gideon's cage again, furious. Began to talk about Stanley Kubrick's use of twins in _The Shining_, how they represented duplicity. About Remus and Romulus, about Lucifer being born the twin brother of Jesus Christ. This last fact had been conveniently left out of the Bible. Gideon's mind reeled.

"Derek? I need you to focus for me, okay? Where is officer Anders? The man I was with? Where is he?"

Something moved over Hiller's face like a shadow and was gone. He seemed, for a moment, almost repentant. "He went for his gun. He would have told everybody, he would have ruined everything. He would have shot me."

"You hit me with a tranquilizer dart. But not officer Anders. What did you do to him?"

"Bobo ate him."

"Bobo?"

"My dog, Bobo. Attacked him from behind. His throat... it's gone." Hiller dragged his index finger across his throat and lolled his tongue out. "He's gone."

Victor began to cry again at this news. Hiller seemed unable to hear him. "It's time for you two to fight now. It is time to see who is the real boy and who is the demon."

"Derek, they are both real-"

_"SHUT UP!"_

Hiller stopped at Victor's cage, pulled a ring of keys from his pocket and unlocked the little door. He walked over to Vincent's cage. Stopped dead.

"What is wrong with this one?"

"I don't know, Derek. But he might need a doctor." Gideon kept his voice as calm and steady as he could. Hiller glanced over at Victor.

"What is wrong with him?!"

"H-he has diabetes. He needs his shots." Victor's voice shook with emotion. Gideon was proud of the little guy, so nervous and scared.

"Demons don't have diabetes. Demons are strong."

"I thought, I thought you believed that demons were weaker, Derek. That is why the real boys kill them?" Gideon couldn't keep up with the man's madness. He was all over the place.

"God gives them the strength to win, in a fight, when a believer, someone righteous, is watching. But ordinarily? They are very strong. They don't have weaknesses like this." Derek motioned towards the motionless form before him. Gideon nodded, as if he understood. Hiller turned back to Victor, who was watching him with huge eyes. Hiller removed a gun from the wasitband of his pants.

"If this one is still awake, and that one has fallen sick, that can only mean that this one is the demon," Hiller's voice was acid. He lifted the gun.

"Derek, don't-"

The gun went off. At the moment it went off, Vincent shot up with a scream. Victor Smith remained standing for a moment, and then toppled over. Blood that was almost black ran out of a hole in his forehead. Vincent was babbling and crying. Hiller turned in Vincent's direction, eyes huge. He screamed that he had been tricked. Tricked by a demon.

There was a second shot and Vincent Smith stopped screaming.

Gideon shut his eyes and waited for his turn. But Derek Hiller had other plans in mind for the wicked federal agent who had disrupted his mission from God.

Hiller began to devolve quickly after that. The next 6 and a half days, he spent beating Jason Gideon senseless. The bodies of the twin boys he had killed, he propped up in the corner of the kill room. He left the light on for the first three days or so, so Gideon could watch them as they turned colours and decomposed.

The torture itself wasn't "that bad". It was bearable. The physical aspects. Mostly beatings. Hiller was off script. He couldn't kill Gideon because he had no reason to believe Gideon was a demon. Gideon was a man, a man who had messed up his, Derek Hiller's, mission from God. But God hadn't given the go-ahead to kill him.

He couldn't let Gideon go, though. He hadn't been given that message, either. Hiller's rage and uncertainty piled up. So Hiller beat him.

Three days or so after the deaths of Vincent and Victor Smith, Hiller came back with two more boys. The process repeated. Gideon could not argue his way out of this, could not protect these new children anymore than he had been able to protect the last. You could not reason with a psychotic, their illness locked them away from any external tactics. Days spent in darkness felt almost eternal. Panic, pain and grief swelled and meshed together. Where was his team? Why hadn't they come for him? Surely they knew who they were looking for by now.

Hiller, still enraged by Gideon's "trickery", put a gun in the agent's cage. Loaded. He, Hiller, couldn't kill Gideon but Gideon could kill himself.

A day before his team found him and one of the surviving boys from the next set (Brian and Andrew Thomas, Brian had survived), Gideon had seriously considered using the gun. He couldn't face watching any more children die in terror while he sat useless in a cage with puppy dog eyes. Days spent in pitch blackness were beginning to wear down his defenses. He was beginning to see shapes and faces in the pitch blackness, things that he could not have seen, images pulled from his subconscious and thrown back at him in that dark, cold pit of a room. Hiller opened the door of Gideon's cage and kicked bottled water to him, the day after the Smith twins were killed. Enough to keep him alive, not enough to cut the terrible thirst. Images twirled and swirled, he heard an infinite stream of boys begging him for help, for advice, for a way out of their shared nightmare.

He told himself he'd use the gun, if he had to impotently witness another child die. Luckily, his team got there first.

* * *

"My nightmare lasted eight days. Eight days in blackness, hearing those cries, and feeling those blows, and I was growing weary. It sounds like such a short span of time, doesn't it? But it's relative. Eight days is long enough to turn a grown man into a cowering, quivering ball of nerves. It's not even the physical abuse that wears on you, it's something spiritual, something psychic. Madness and pain that gets into your soul and your mind, that wears you down."

Reid sucked in his breath. Watched Gideon. Gideon's face was disturbingly flat.

"About a month after that, I started waking up with terrible nightmares. Things just seemed so pointless. I wasn't afraid of something similar happening again, it was the fact that brutal violence, senseless pain was occuring constantly, that I couldn't make a dent in it even if I dedicated my life to that goal... _that_ got to me. I stopped getting out of bed on time. When I went to work, I was on edge. I kept seeing those two boys who I had promised life to, who had been shot dead in front of me, and even though I had seen similar violence before, at that time in my life, I just couldn't get over this one case. It haunted me. I felt guilty. I looked back on events and saw all the ways I had screwed things up. I saw everything as I should have done it, or thought I should have done it. But I knew I was depressed then. I got help. I felt poised on the edge of infinity, but I knew in the back of my mind I could still get help. But when I was in that room, having to face yet another pair of terrified kids, having to hear them beg me for help I couldn't give? That is the closest I have come to wanting to end it for my own good. Looking back now, I can still feel those emotions, that sense of resolution; not wanting to go, but knowing in my gut it was the right thing, it was better than having to experience one more death I couldn't stop." Gideon stopped talking and looked at Reid earnestly. Exhaled. He felt bone-weary tired. Reid was still holding that damned gun.

"What stopped you?" Reid finally asked.

"My team came for me. And just like that, the trap that had snared me, which was all-encomposing... it wasn't there anymore. Your trap is gone now, too, Reid. Do you honestly think, after this, after this event right now, this on record, any judge is going to send you back to him?" Gideon did not have to clarify the "him". Everyone knew who he was talking about.

"They might. They did it before."

"I won't let them this time. I am in your life now, Reid. Involved in a way I wasn't before. I will not let them. You have to believe me on that. I won't let them, and I am pretty sure everyone else here right now, Hotch, these police officers here... they won't let you go back to that either. You are not going back. This event, what has happened now, this goes on record. Your entire case gets reviewed. And look at it this way: you can always do this another time."

"I might lose my courage. I might lose my bravery."

"Killing yourself isn't brave, Reid. Brave is what you have been all along. Fighting tooth and nail. You kill yourself, and you are another child I couldn't save." Gideon knew it was a cheap shot, a manipulative shot. But he knew it would work. Reid's expression softened. Reid, who had been through Hell and was worried about returning, would do for his foster father what he felt too weak to do for himself. "You kill yourself, and I let another little boy down, but I also lose my son."

Reid stared hard at Gideon. His brow wrinkled.

"I am just your foster kid." This said in a whisper, as if he didn't want to shatter this most unexpectant and precious of dreams.

"That is _bullshit_, Reid. You are my son. In every way that really matters. You are my kid. _Mine_. Do you hear me? You might be William Reid's child, biologically. _But you're my boy_."

Spencer Reid lowered the gun. He placed it carefully on the ground, the muzzle facing away from himself, away from Gideon and the police officers. Nobody moved. Reid blinked, tiredly. Let out a slow breath. The type of breath people let out when they are mustering strength, one that shakes nervously and has a slight whistle to it. He crawled over to Gideon, put his head on the federal agent's shoulder and slumped against him. Shut his eyes and let Gideon pick him up. Gideon could feel him shaking in his arms, a tremor that ran through his small, wiry body like electricity.

"I'm still going to have to go to court, aren't I? And answer questions? I don't want to go."

"Let's just focus on right now, Reid." Around them, police officers were talking into walkies, but Gideon wasn't really hearing them. It was over. He had his boy. He had Reid. Reid was in his arms, warm and alive and breathing. Gideon kissed his hair, his brow. Carried him out of the woods like he was a toddler, Reid's arms clasped around his neck, small head resting on his shoulder.

Sometimes life was mercifully anti-climactic.

* * *

**Almost done, please review.**


	47. Chapter 47: Dear Diary

**Title:** Losing My Religion by Lexikal (Chapter forty seven)

**Rating:** M for graphic violence against a child and language (in the first chapter, chapter 8 and chapter 10 so far. Chapter 28 has Reid discussing specific acts of abuse but not at length.)

**Fandom:** Criminal Minds

**Summary:** Spencer Reid, 10, is removed from his father's "care" after being violently attacked and is fostered by his old mentor, Jason Gideon. This is a sequel to "That's me in the corner". Features child abuse, do not read if underage.

**Author's Note: Scroll down to where it says "New Chapter starts below" to start reading right away.**

A reviewer asked why Gideon, if given a gun with a bullet in it by the UnSub didn't just shoot the UnSub. Well, Gideon and the kids were locked up somewhere pitch black, without water, with no way of escape and with no certainty the team would find them anytime soon, if at all. The Unsub was the only person who knew where they were and if Gideon had shot him, as far as he knew, they would have all died of dehydration (the human body can go about 3 days without water before organs start shutting down, and very few people can go more than four days, even if they consume their own urine). I am trying to tell readers less and show them more as I get older (a side effect of getting into foreign films and European literature), so I hope you guys don't mind if that wasn't spelled out and I hope that clears that up. Another reviewer mentioned that they didn't think Gideon would tell Reid so much, would lay so much on a traumatized, suicidal little boy. Gideon in that last chapter is exhausted and terrified, rethinking everything he has done for Reid; Reid is on his last legs and just wants to know that someone else has been through Hell, too. He doesn't want to be protected or sheltered from the hard truths in life anymore, he wants Gideon to *see* how scared he is and Gideon knows that by sharing his own demons, he will connect himself to Reid in a way he can't do if he remains completely objective and "professional". Reid wants to hear of Gideon's demons, to know Gideon got through his own shit. He doesn't want to be soothed. Gideon also doesn't want to take a chance and leave something out and have Reid do something impulsively tragic because he feels the universe is personally singling him out for punishment.

Sometimes when people are really upset, they can benefit from hearing about your own Hell. It depends on the person and the situation, and most of us tend to want to soothe those in crisis, make them feel better, but life often is very bleak with no easy answers and for people who are as intelligent and "experienced" as Reid, the pat answers often come off as hollow and insincere. Please also try to remember that Gideon, in this fic, is supposed to be traumatized himself (I didn't come right out and say it, but in his own way he is suffering from post traumatic stress just as strongly as Reid, as evidenced by his dreams, his fatigue, etc- this story is about Reid first and foremost with Gideon being an afterthought, really, but I wanted these two characters to have that sense of being haunted by trauma in common; Reid by his abusive upbringing and Gideon by the losses and horrors he has faced while on the job).

This story is hard to write. It takes a lot out of me and to make it feel real I try to imagine what I would say and do in these situations and then sort of frame myself within the personality type of the characters. It is sort of experimental fiction in that regard, and every experiment can go awry. Part of me wanted to finish it off with a nice little happy ending, because I know folks like nice little happy endings, but I am prone to enjoying dark endings myself, or at least haunting endings so I tried to settle for something between those two extremes. I find CM, with time, has become more polished and more politically correct (it is missing the gritty rawness it had in the first two seasons as far as I am concerned) and that has turned me off watching the show. There are definitely flaws in this story, and things I would rewrite if I was doing it all over again, but such is life and better to get something out there than abandon it all together. Thanks for the reviews, the feedback and the constructive criticism. You guys are great.

**New chapter starts below.**

* * *

_**"You can never go home again, but the truth is you can never leave home, so it's all right." -Maya Angelou**_

_(Entry from the diary of Spencer Reid)_

Friday, June 14th, 1991

Dear Diary,

Where to start, where to start? It's been more than 6 months now since I last wrote in you. So much has happened in that time. That day, that long lonely day when I shot at the pig truck and really thought death was the only way out, that day is a drop in the bucket of my life now. That day, after I put the gun down and Gideon scooped me up, we went to the hospital. It was routine, apparently, for that kind of situation. A doctor looked at me, theorized my nose was bleeding because in all likelihood I had fallen on my face or been hit by a tree branch. A shrink spoke to me. I went home with Gideon and he actually dug a camping cot out of the basement and slept in my room for more than a week. I was exhausted, so tired, so scared. Scared of living. Scared of everything. In real life the end of the story is never really the end of the story. Hotch spoke to the judge on my case and the judge came to Gideon's house and spoke to me. Gideon put an alarm system through the house, that would go off if a door or window was opened and the code wasn't entered into this little box in the wall within 30 seconds. Gideon claimed that as an FBI agent tracking brutal killers and sadists, a home security system was a good idea but I knew he got it so that if I ever decided to go AWOL again he would hear. Oh yeah, about the judge on my case... he was a pretty nice old gray haired man named Douglas Bentley and he was straight to the point. I wouldn't have to see my father in court, he was convinced that putting me through the "trauma" of a trial was unnecessary and when my father made a fuss over that fact apparently the judge gave him a big piece of his mind (I have to admit, part of me wanted to see that but all in all I was just glad I didn't have to take the stand).

He asked me about mom, if I felt safe with her. I told him I did when she was talking her medication and he smiled and went away and apparently he talked to mom and asked her if she wanted me back, and she said she did and he said the only way he would even think about it was if my father was no longer living in that house (her house) and if she agreed to speak to a therapist and a social worker and have a social worker come once a week to monitor her and make sure she was taking her meds and keeping the house in an "acceptable" condition. She agreed to this. The judge spoke to me and asked me what I wanted to happen and explained about mom, and how she would be monitored for 6 months without me at home. He spoke to Gideon and asked when Gideon planned to go back to work at the FBI and Gideon checked with his superiors and managed to take off another 6 months, the time period mom would be on what amounted to probation. If mom was unable to stay on her meds or if dad came home or if the house fell apart, then the judge would look at putting me in long term foster care and possibly adoption.

He knew I loved Gideon, but when Gideon had first started fostering me it had been in response to an emergency situation. Gideon didn't have plans for what to do long-term with me. He was a single man working all over the country, sometimes for weeks on end and he brought his work "home with him", so to speak. Gideon told the judge that he wanted me, that if, for whatever reason, my mom was found to be unsuitable he wanted me and he would make it work by whatever means necessary. He even offered to quit working Behavioral Sciences and teach and write books to be my legal guardian, if it came to that. I cried a little that night, thinking about what he had said, because I hadn't known he was that devoted to me. He would hire a nanny or babysitters or whatever, he said. The judge told Gideon he appreciated his devotion to me and realized that my case was unusual. The judge also brought up the issue of my schooling and the fact that I would most likely be graduating from high school before my twelfth birthday and be attending university. Gideon lives nowhere near any major universities and even though I'd be going to university, I still wouldn't be old enough to drive myself anywhere. The judge wanted me to live with a "caring, loving" adult, especially since I would be recovering from "extreme" abuse and would need help and guidance. I have to admit, it was and is complicated. Mom, however, fulfilled her end of the bargain and dad moved out and didn't dare come back. He phoned her once and she apparently hung up the phone on him.

During the 6 month period that I was living with Gideon before going "home" I changed a lot. I grew three inches. I stopped having so many nightmares and so many panic attacks. I feel like I grew up 5 or 6 years worth, emotionally, in that 6 month span. Gideon told me that he didn't know how to treat me sometimes, that he had been an only child himself and didn't know how to talk to kids, and doubly so for me, because I was so bright. Gideon did some digging and spoke to the director of a school for gifted children (with IQs over 150) in Vegas and explained my situation, complicated as it was. He wanted to know if I could be a part of the school in any way, even if I would be attending public school. I wanted to attend public school, to be normal. But the director of the Sunshine Institute (I know, stupid name) said I was more than welcome to join in with the extra-curricular activities, that a child of my "abilities" would be a welcome addition to their scholastic "family".

Apparently because they have lots of different clubs at this place Gideon decided I would be going. They have a chess club, a model UN, a music club, a club for aspiring entomologists, a fine arts club... So, without really asking my opinion, Gideon worked it out that I would go to this school at least 3 times a week after my own classes at the public highschool in my neighborhood were over for the day. There was even a car pool that would come pick me up from school at 3:20 and drop me back home at 9. I am pretty sure Gideon pulled some strings to work this out for me. He wanted to know that I'd have people I could half relate to when I got home, that I'd have healthy adults in my life and things to do and people who would be looking in on me multiple times a week in addition to the social worker who was scheduled to come and visit every Saturday from noon until two p.m. Oh yeah, in addition to mom having to see a therapist to help her deal with her schizophrenia and other issues, the judge worked it out that I would have to see a child psychologist when I got back. He wrote in my file that I was a bright child and that, if I didn't "click" with whoever I saw at first, all measures would be taken to ensure I got someone I could relate to and trust. I wasn't really happy about this, but it was apparently non-negotiable. Gideon reminded me that if I wanted, I could sit there and play chess all hour every week, or talk about french literature. Or whatever.

After everything was all sorted out, I started feeling really sad. I wanted to stay with Gideon. I mean, I wanted mom too. If I had never seen her again, that would have eaten at me. But I wanted to be with Gideon. I knew his job made that more or less impossible and that mom wanted me back home and that dad would be gone and wouldn't be able to come back if he wanted to stay out of prison. But I still felt so upset. Gideon promised me that at least once a month, when he wasn't on a case, he would fly coach to Vegas and spend at least the weekend with me. At least once a month, but maybe more. When we told Danny what the judge had decided, that I would be with Gideon for 6 more months and then be going back to Vegas, he got really upset and took off for the rest of the day. We found him later at the playground, and he had a flask and was drunk and yelled bloody murder at me and Gideon. Gideon managed to get him in the car and we went back home and Danny sobered up. Gideon tried to talk to him about why he was so mad, but Danny refused, so Gideon phoned Rossi and Rossi came over and Danny and Rossi had a long talk about how much he hated living with his dad (who was always drunk) and how I was his only friend and how hard school was. Long story short, Gideon and Rossi both spoke to Danny's dad about possibly attending AA or getting some help, and he basically told them both to go to Hell. After that, Danny told Gideon that his dad hit him every so often and it "sometimes" got "out of hand" and Gideon phoned the local child protective services while Danny and I sat at the table drinking pepsi and eavesdropping. A social worker came over, they interviewed Mr. Crane, interviewed Danny and decided he'd be better in foster care. So off he went to foster care and he seemed to brighten up a lot, and when Gideon offered to pay to fly Danny out to see me in Vegas once a month with him, Danny's dad, miraculously, agreed to this. So after all this was sorted out, things were a lot better.

I spent the next 5 months or so just being a kid, reading constantly, playing video games. Gideon and me and Danny and sometimes Rossi and Hotch would go into DC every so often. We went to museums, the movies, all sorts of places. We went to the Smithsonian 12 times in 6 months. Founded in 1846, the Smithsonian is the largest museum in the world, composed of 19 smaller museums and galleries, including the national zoo (we went 5 times, 4 of those with Danny). We saw _Home Alone_, _Kindergarten Cop_, _Edward Scissorhands_, _White Fang,_ _The Silence of the Lambs_ and _Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles 2: The Secret of the Ooze_ in various movie theaters (Danny saw all but _White Fang_ with us, he was sick at home puking when we saw that one). Gideon didn't want to let me watch _The Silence of the Lambs_ at first, but after I explained to him that I had already read the novel the movie was based on (as well as "_Red Dragon_" and "_Black Sunday_", both also by Thomas Harris, the author of _The_ _Silence of the Lambs_) as well as having seen the 1986 movie "_Manhunter_" (the movie version of "_Red Dragon_") with mom in the theaters when I was only 6, Gideon relented. We took Hotch along with us (Rossi was on a case) and got red vines and popcorn and soda and junior mints and sat in front. The ticket taker told Gideon that the movie was "very scary" and that I might "freak out" and Gideon said "_See?_ What do you say, we see _nothing but trouble_ instead?" but Danny and I both said no. Hotch didn't say anything, he just smiled that slightly enigmatic smile of his.

After the movie was over, Danny and I did Hannibal Lecter impersonations all night long, driving both Hotch and Gideon nuts on the drive home. We went through a Sonic's drive-thru and Danny took the bacon out of his superSONIC bacon double cheeseburger and laid the bacon strips on his face at a red light and did an impromptu impersonation of Lecter that wasn't in the movie. In fact, what he said was: "It rubs the lotion on its skin. It does this whenever it is told." It didn't really make any sense, because the character Jame Gumb (Buffalo Bill) says that, not Lecter, but Hotch, who was in the passenger seat drinking a caramel shake from Sonic (I got onion rings and tots, as I couldn't make up my mind) made a funny noise, like a choking noise and we realized he had laughed and inhaled some of his milkshake. Gideon said, sternly, to stop doing impersonations from _Silence of the Lambs_. But not five minutes later Danny and I were acting out the scene from the movie where Multiple Miggs tells Clarice he can smell her c-word. Gideon yelled (really loudly, actually) then that we were never, ever seeing an R movie again if he had anything to say about it and put an oldies station on to tune us out and we shut up then. 5 minutes after that, there was a weird smell (like burning rubber) that wafted in from the highway and Gideon asked Hotch and us if we could smell it, and I couldn't help myself. I said: "_I myself cannot. You use Evian skin cream, and sometimes you wear L'Air du Temps, but not today." _Hotch choked up laughing again. That was one of my favourite nights with Gideon. We all laughed so hard (even Gideon, even though he had to pretend to be the serious grown up for the sake of my emotional development) and Danny said he wanted to read all of Harris' books right away.

What else? So, yeah, we did all those things. We went go-karting and went to a place with a giant indoor bouncy castle and to a Chuck E. Cheese and a bunch of other places. I think Gideon was trying to pack an entire childhood into 6 short months, even though we both knew that when I went home to mom he'd still come and visit. Easter was a blast and we got tons of chocolate eggs and stuff (Danny spent the night before with us and Gideon bought him chocolate and candy, too, of course). I'd never really done the whole easter thing before, mom complaining that chocolate eggs had nothing to do with the fictional resurrection of a fictional Messiah she didn't even believe in. I don't know about Jesus, but the chocolate was really good. And we rented "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory" which made the candy seem even better (I liked the eggs with the marshmallow inside best, Danny liked the white chocolate rabbit with the yellow sugar eyes best).

Oh yeah, Danny got tested at school, and was diagnosed with dyscalculia. He was put in a special math class, but seemed to mellow out a little about how much he hated school after that. I helped him with his math and showed him some tricks, and he showed me (or tried to show me) how to play different chords on the guitar. I was just as bad at the guitar as Danny was with fractions.

Gideon decided that instead of sending me home on a plane to mom, he'd pack up all my toys and stuff in a u-haul and drive me back so we could see a bit of the country together and have a few more days together. So we did that, and ate out at lots of truck stops and fast food places and Gideon also loaded up on granola bars and fruit, as I wouldn't eat anything with meat in it, or dairy, or eggs eventually. We called mom every day from a different pay phone on the road and she told me how she had repainted my bedroom pale green and how she had found one of my old stuffed animals in the basement (it turned out to be Moogie, the stuffed animal I thought she had thrown out) and how excited she was for me to come home, how she loved me "bunches" (an expression she hadn't used since I had been 3 or 4). The last half day on the road, I felt really bummed out, really sad. Gideon let me be quiet. I think he was sad too.

When we got home he helped me unload the u-haul and set up my bedroom the way I liked it. Mom and him had coffee, they talked. We looked through the photos of me, the scrapbook I had made. Mom ruffled my hair. Gideon looked a bit choked up. When it was time for him to leave and "get back on the road" he wrapped me in a huge bear hug and just hugged me for about a minute straight. When he let me go I could see tears in his eyes, but he smiled at me. Told me he'd be back for a visit (with Danny) as soon as he could. He left and I cried, sat on the couch and cried, and mom went and got a book of poetry I had liked when I was little and read it to me and stroked the back of my head.

Gideon phoned from the road 4 hours later to tell me he had just eaten a Big Mac at McDonald's and had seen some guy peeing along the side of the road. We laughed about that and I told him again about factory farming, and he said he was maybe going to look into cutting down his meat consumption. Oh yeah, I forgot to write this earlier, but a few months after the incident with the gun that horrible day in November, a letter came to Gideon's house addressed to me. Inside were a few photographs of a piglet being hugged by a smiling young woman in an orange sweater, and a few of the piglet by himself, in a barn, face upturned and eyes smiling, standing in hay and looking about as happy as I think a pig can look. The trucker had wanted to do something nice for me, and discovered, when he unloaded "my" pigs at the slaughter house, that there was a very young piglet onboard by mistake. He bought it right then and there and sent it to a farm sanctuary in California. All for me. The people at the farm sanctuary heard a truncated version of my story and named the piglet "Spencer" in my honor. They even dipped "Spencer's" foot (hoof? Are pig feet called hooves? I am not sure, I don't think so but I have to look it up now) in green paint and printed it on a piece of paper and laminated it for me.

Apparently my pig Spencer has another pig friend named Daisy and they are inseparable. He has been neutered, of course, and is wearing a collar with a little tag on it in the pictures. His favourite foods are potato chips and apples and he even has a favourite blanket and knows his name now! All really cool, I must say so myself. I was told that if I ever am in California I am more than welcome to come to the Second Chance Farm Rescue Sanctuary and meet my pig, Spencer. Well, Gideon of course heard all about this letter (I read it outloud to him the day I got it, he was sitting right next to me on the couch, this was still months before I came back to Vegas) and we found out that the sanctuary is a hop, skip and a jump away from Disney Land, so we are going this summer: me, Gideon, my mom and maybe (hopefully) Danny.

Gideon says he will let Danny phone me long distance from his house whenever he is home and not on a case, and of course, we are going to be pen pals and see each other at least one weekend a month (Gideon promised and he keeps his promises). Rossi and Hotch also said they are going to write me and Hotch said if I ever need a lawyer for any other reason, for animal rights stuff for instance, I can have him _pro bono_. I thought at first he was joking but he seemed dead serious so I really am not sure. Rossi said he could see me becoming an animal liberator full time and warned me that members of the animal liberation front are considered terrorists and tracked by the FBI, so to be careful because he would be able to spot a "job" by me a mile away. Then he and Hotch got into a long debate about the relative ethics of breaking the law, and it actually became quite heated. Gideon looked at me and raised his eyebrows and said "I don't think Reid is going to be busting into any research labs anytime soon", but it didn't come off as funny as he probably meant and Hotch told me again that he is only ever a phone call away. I asked Gideon later, when everyone was gone, what he thought about breaking the law if it is to help animals, and he said: "Reid, I can't answer that. Only you can answer that. You have to trust your mind, and your heart, both. Whatever you do with your life, I know I will be proud of you."

About a month before I came back to Vegas, Danny got a job as a paper boy so he will be making pocket money that way, and delivering the newspaper to Gideon every morning (even when Gideon is not home, and Gideon is going to pay him to put the papers in the house when he is away on a case, so that burglars don't know he isn't home).

Hmm. What else do I have to tell you, diary? Castor and Pollux are doing really well. They are huge now, and mom says I have to stop feeding them human food, that they are "obese" and "lazy". She is right, actually, but they look so funny when they stuff their faces that I have a hard time making them eat their pellet food and lettuce and stuff.

Oh, and I started an animal rights club at my high school. So far not many kids are in it (it has only existed for 2 days), but I am enjoying myself. I joined the entomology club at the Sunshine Institute (I hate that stupid name, I'll say it again!) and we are working on putting together a criminology club there, too, for kids who are interested in criminology and profiling, that kind of stuff. I have only been home with mom about 6 days now, and miss Danny and Gideon and Hotch and Rossi a lot, but Mom is trying really hard to be a "regular" mom (whatever that means). She even bought Hamburger Helper and looked disappointed when I told her I didn't eat meat at all anymore. We ended up making this really good bean dip together. I am not sure this is going to last, mom being so happy and taking her medication, but it is nice to know she is trying at least.

I haven't had a bad dream about dad or anything of that nature in about a month and a half now. Hopefully, those dreams are gone for good.

I have to end this now, diary, cause Gideon is scheduled to phone me any minute.

Will write again soon,

Spencer

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**One more chapter. Please review. Btw, in case you are wondering, pig feet are called "trotters".**


	48. Chapter 48: Vegas Boy (final chapter)

**Title:** Losing My Religion by Lexikal (Chapter forty eight)

**Rating:** M for graphic violence against a child and language (in the first chapter, chapter 8 and chapter 10 so far. Chapter 28 has Reid discussing specific acts of abuse but not at length.)

**Fandom:** Criminal Minds

**Summary:** Spencer Reid, 10, is removed from his father's "care" after being violently attacked and is fostered by his old mentor, Jason Gideon. This is a sequel to "That's me in the corner". Features child abuse, do not read if underage.

**Author's Note:** I realized that some readers are let down by the fact that William Reid wasn't prosecuted in a court of law for his crimes against Spencer. It is important to keep in mind that this story takes place 23 years ago (in 1990) and even today, the vast majority of child abuse crimes go unpunished (most aren't even reported, and of those that are, most never end with a judge sentencing the abusive parent or caregiver to "time", as much as most of us want that to happen. It is a sad fact of life that child abuse is endemic in our society today, and has been for as long as we have been keeping records. We as a species are only now, in the last three or four decades, starting to really view kids as something more than "little adults" or property of the parents (or slave-master, or "boss" or whomever). In reality, Reid would never have ended up in foster care with Gideon, even if Gideon had offered (in all likelihood he would have ended up in some foster care "center" for boys in Vegas and been, for the most part, neglected: if _very _lucky he would have gotten foster parents suited to deal with his unique intellectual and medical "needs"). I also realize the last chapter was very short and seemed like a let down to many. I wasn't sure how to segue between the end of chapter forty six and this end scene, in this chapter. The use of brand names and material objects in this chapter is used to denote Spencer's preoccupation with that which he can control and buy to keep himself occupied. Also, I really tried to get across the busy neon nature of Vegas in this chapter, and I hope you can "feel" and "see" it like I did, even if you have never been there. Like always, reviews are most welcome. This story has been in the works for a long time now, and I like to know what you like and don't like, as I plan to continue writing fan fic more often in the immediate future.

**New chapter starts below.**

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**One month later...**

Spencer Reid gazed down at his digital watch as he got off the bus. 6:47 pm. Reid swore lightly under his breath, hiked his backpack up higher and let his feet speed up, from brisk walk to jog. It was a Thursday, which meant that he was scheduled to be home by 4:00. He'd forgotten to phone his mom from the library and tell her he would be late. He only remembered when he let his brain float away from the experiment on dog intelligence he had been formulating and alight again on his mother- that is, when he saw his house. Damn it. Reid ran the last block to his house, fumbled with the key on the black shoelace around his neck and shot into the house.

"Mom?! I'm home! I'm sorry I forgot to call, I was at the library and really busy!" His words echoed off the walls. Reid kicked his tennis shoes off and wandered down the narrow hallway where his, and his mother's, bedrooms were located. He opened the door to his room and hit the light switch and the string light of planets and christmas tree lights he'd strung around the room burst into gleeful life. Reid pulled his backpack off and dumped it on the carpeted floor, before quickly closing the distance to his mother's room.

"Mom? Like I said, I'm really sorry, I was planning to phone once I got to the library, then when I got there I realized I only had a 5 dollar bill and no change and when I was going back to ask the librarian for change, I sort of got distracted in the psychology section and got into this long discussion with this college aged kid who is doing his thesis on chimpanzee intelligence and actually invited me out to this research lab to meet two of the chimpanzees and..." Reid was babbling, excited, worried. He burst into his mother's room. She was sitting on top of the covers in sweats and an old shirt, a highlighter marker in her mouth, going over journals articles he had photocopied and stapled for her just last week. She looked up and blinked at him, looking ever so owlish.

"Spencer? Why are you yelling? My ears are perfectly fine."

He stopped short. The nervous smile that had been on his lips dried up.

"I'm almost three hours late. I forgot to phone..."

Diana Reid gazed at the small clock on her bedside table. "You're late? I thought you get home from that Sunshine place at nine? Nine something?"

Reid exhaled. Snaked his big toe out of a hole in his gym sock. Time to buy new socks. He sniffed and realized he needed to change his socks, do a load of laundry... He looked at his mother blandly.

"That's only on mondays, wednesdays and fridays, mom. Tuesdays and thursdays I come basically right home from school and should be home by 4:00. Tuesdays I go to the Safeway, and saturdays." All the giddy worry and excitement that had been in the little boy's voice had deflated. He said his piece patiently, but there was a sting to his words, a hurt. He was almost 3 hours late, not yet eleven years old, and not only hadn't she been worried, she hadn't even _noticed_.

He had spent two hours carefully drawing a chart with a pencil and ruler, then inking it in, coloring the different boxes with pencil crayons. He had taken the chart to the local kinkos and they had laminated it for him for a buck fifty. It was his schedule, where he was on what days, when he was expected home, and at the bottom there were the phone numbers his mother would need to get hold of him if she were ever undergoing a psychiatric emergency: the office number for his school; the number for the Sunshine school's head office where he went, thanks to Gideon, three days a week after school to do social activities; even the local Safeway's customer service department (they knew the happy, eerily intelligent little boy with the thick glasses on a first name basis by now and, though none of the employees would ever say so to his face, most of them felt a little sad to see such a little guy doing the grocery shopping week after week, so meticulously, eyes scanning over a paper list and checking off items, paying occasionally in pennies, carting stuff home in an old, beat-up wagon... Reid had taped his laminated schedule to the front of the fridge with duct tape so it couldn't accidentally fall off. Aside from an old school photo of him he had stuck up with a magnet, it was the only thing on the fridge. He had shown it to their social worker when she had first come and his mother had claimed to have the schedule memorized.

"Well, you're home now. Honestly, Spencer, I don't understand the problem here." She had already returned her gaze to the photocopied papers.

"Mom, you're supposed to know where I am at all times, remember?" He felt suddenly like kicking something, like punching the wall. His anger must have registered, because she looked back up at him.

"I don't appreciate the tone of voice, Spencer. I don't understand you. You want freedom, I give you freedom. I know how bright you are, I know you sometimes forget to call when you're working. I'm not worried about you, sweetie, a responsible kid like you..."

He turned on her and walked away. She called after him. "_I don't like this attitude you've developed, Spencer! I realize you miss Jason, but you're going to have to suck it up, pal. I don't deserve your anger."_

Reid exhaled angrily through gritted teeth, stormed into the kitchen and pulled a cupboard door open. He wanted to scream at her, to tell her he was sick of always having to be "responsible", of having to do the shopping and the laundry and make sure she took her pills. He wanted to yell that he didn't like that she didn't care if he "went out" at ten at night to ride the city bus and stare, blankly, through the windows at the lights of the city. He didn't like that they never ate at the small, formica dining table together or that he still worried incessantly that, even on her good days, she was spending too much time alone in her room. He didn't like the fact that every two or three days he would sweep into her room with a black trash bag and pick up all the errant crumpled pieces of paper or haul all the coffee cups with dried black coffee rings in the bottoms back to the kitchen, load them into the dishwasher. He wanted her to care about him. To realize he was bright, sure, but to still see him as a kid. To ask him how his day at school was of her own volition, to smile over his A plus papers and stick them up proudly on their ancient, orange fridge. To hug him when he wandered the hallway at night after a nightmare, fix him cocoa and sit with him on the couch. He wanted a mother, not a room mate. He felt like his entire life, he had been one of his mother's lodger's in her bizarre little schizophrenic fantasy world. A tiny little adult she occasionally did things for because there was no other way around it.

He knew she loved him, but her love wasn't enough to soothe the anger and hurt he felt. Reid pulled a box of chocolate pop tarts out of the cupboard, pulled a foil wrapped package out of the box and ripped it open with his teeth. All but slammed the pop tarts into the toaster. He fished a plastic _Gremlins_ cup out of the cupboard (he'd found it in the basement of the local Salvation Army thrift store and the guy at the register had only wanted a dime for it!), pulled the carton of Sunny D out of the fridge and filled the cup up almost to overflowing, then sucked off the first inch and a half of juice with a bendy straw. The poptarts sprang up and were thrown on a plastic plate. Reid carried his "dinner" into the living room, turned the old console television on (it was a big one that sat on the floor and came up four feet, the top littered with doilies and a small ceramic lamp of a duck, a framed photo of him and Gideon... Reid dusted it down with a cloth sprayed with lemon pledge every Sunday) and pulled the knob on. They got 13 channels. Reid put his poptarts and juice on the top of the TV, clicked the knob around until he found the local news, pulled one of the tv trays over to the lazy boy. He'd watch the news. Find out what was going on in the world. Someone in the Reid household should know what was going on.

Reid bit angrily into his poptart as the newscaster, a twenty-something blond woman with dazzling white teeth began to ramble about a local ponzi scheme.

* * *

He'd eaten and brushed his teeth, gargled with pepperment Scope and dumped a week's worth of laundry into the washing machine in the basement. He hated going down in that basement, felt cold fingers on his neck, his back being down there, that place where he had been so often beaten, where _other things_ had happened... but his mother wasn't going to start doing his laundry now and he couldn't very well go to school with stains all over his clothes. One day he had felt phantom fingers on his back, stroking... _and then more than stroking_... and had bolted for the stairs, heart hammering. His mother found him bent over the green toilet in the bathroom, coughing bile into the toilet, and when she inquired about what was wrong he told her he thought maybe he was "coming down with something." No way could he ever tell her the truth, she seemed to view his desire to discuss his "problems" as an indication that he was criticizing her parenting skills. Which, maybe he was. And he didn't want to fight, didn't want the headache. She had made a small noise of commiseration and told him she thought there was still some Pepto Bismal left in the medicine cabinet (there was, he had purchased a new bottle just three days earlier at the Safeway).

On this particular day, hands shaking, he dropped the box of Tide on the floor and had to retrieve the broom and dustpan to clean up. As he bent down to pick up the dust pan he saw a black mark on the wall, like an errant splash of paint. Reid swallowed hard and scraped at the black smudge. It flaked off. He stared at the black flake under his finger nail, lifted his thumb nail to his lips and tasted. The black dissolved into dark red. He shivered violently. It was his blood; old, black blood. From one of the beatings. Some of the blood "spatter" his mother had missed when "cleaning up" with the mop and bucket and lemon Mr. Clean. Reid gritted his teeth, got up woodenly, wiped the thumb on the side of his khakis and carried the dust pan full of Tide to the garbage and dumped it in. Spooned out a cup of laundry detergent, threw it in the washing machine, and half a cup of liquid Biz stain fighter. Slammed the lid, hit the button to recommence the cycle. The washing machine was mercifully loud. Reid carefully, mechanically, put the Tide and bottle of Biz back on the wooden shelf above the washer and dryer and then ran from the basement, taking the stairs two at a time. He ran down the hallway to his room, threw open the door, slammed the door shut and locked it. He was shaking.

He looked wildly around his room, the room Gideon had help him set up. Sadness and anger and grief washed over him, and warm memories of love and acceptance from Gideon. Bad memories from "before" fighting with good, bittersweet memories. His brain was buzzing with competing emotions. Castor and Pollux climbed the bars of their cage, curious and friendly, pink beady eyes beckoning him over. Reid forced a smile onto his lips and went to them. Unhooked the top door and pulled Castor out, kissed the fat rodent on the head before pulling Pollux out and giving him the same treatment. Pollux ground his teeth happily and licked at his owner's lips with a tiny pink tongue.

"Thank you for the kisses, Pollux," Reid cooed in a falsetto, before gently replacing the rat in his cage.

When Castor and Pollux had been fed a combination of hamster food and spitz brand barbeque flavoured sunflower seeds, Reid fell onto his bed. Stared at the white stucco ceiling, lazily watched plastic models of the planets twirl on dental floss above his head. Some days when he felt confused and exhausted, or just plain sad and missing Gideon, he would lie on his bed for hours and try to move the models above his head simply by the power of his mind, an ability known as "telekinesis". He wasn't sure, but he was fairly certain he had gottten the model of Saturn to spin counter clockwise one long rainy Tuesday afternoon last week. Reid had scored a small used tv (14 inches) for 20 bucks the second week he was home by diligently searching the "for sale" ads in the local paper, and a VCR the week after that. He had carried both of these prizes home on the city bus, grinning like a maniac. They now sat on his desk, waiting. With a TV in his room he could stay up late watching videos rented from the local Blockbuster or playing the super nintendo Rossi had given him. He'd also recently used his "allowance" (which was in actuality whatever was left over from his mother's disability pension after he was done buying groceries) to buy another game console, used, from the newspaper called the "TurboGrafx-16" and 5 game cartridges, his most favourite of which was a game called "Bonk's Adventure". His mother loudly voiced her opinion that such games were a "waste of time and money", and although Reid would never consciously admit it, her opposition to video games made them all the more enjoyable. He was already considering picking up a Sega Genesis when he added to his funds.

At the Salvation Army (the same Salvation Army he had found the plastic _Gremlins_ drinking cup with the cartoon Gizmo on the side for the bargain price of ten cents) he found a phone shaped like Snoopy from the _Peanuts_ cartoons; Snoopy lying on top of his red dog house, flanked by the tiny but formidable Woodstock. What sort of bird was Woodstock, anyway? A canary? That didn't seem likely. How prevalent were wild canaries in the US? Reid wasn't sure. He bit his lip, thinking. The dog house was the phone cradle, Snoopy was the receiver. There was a phone in the hallway, but this way he could talk to Gideon in his own room on those treasured evenings when Gideon wasn't on a case and phoned him to catch up. That felt better. It felt _right_. He didn't worry about his mother listening in on his conversations. She was too into her own world to even notice what he was up to most of the time.

Now, lying on his bed, Reid sat up and gazed over at his rats.

"I was almost three hours late and she didn't even notice. She didn't even _care_. Aren't mothers supposed to notice if their kids are _three hours late_?" He pitched his voice low, so his aforementioned mother wouldn't hear down the hall and chew him out for being "critical". He didn't want a fight, he wanted to vent. Castor and Pollux stared back at him obliquely, in that slightly smug manner all rats seemed to give off. After a long moment, Castor began to wash his face. Pollux meandered over to the metal running wheel and slipped inside. It creaked as he ran on it. Reid would have to fish the WD-40 out from under the kitchen sink and oil it. He sighed. He loved his rats, but they were almost useless when it came to discussing his feelings. All they could really do was stare back without comprehension. Their biggest worries were how often they were fed, and what they were fed. Their master's angst was as alien to them as the concept of astral projection, or metaphysics or the workings of an internal combustion engine. Eat, breed, shit and die. That was about it.

Reid got up off his bed and walked over to his dresser, pulled a model of a space shuttle down off a shelf on the wall. It opened up, and inside were bills and coins. The young genius plucked out a 5 dollar bill and rammed it in his pocket, then picked off a buck fifty in quarters for the bus from the top of his scarred wooden clothes dresser. He pulled open one of the drawers, fished through the "drawer of crap"- old magazines and comics, plastic model pieces of a UFO, a half empty tube of model glue, matchbooks, a few broken action figures, marbles, small squares of grape bazooka joe bubble gum. He snatched up a square of bazooka joe, unwrapped it and let the wrapper fall to the floor, jammed the purple rock-hard gum in his mouth. He dumped his school books out of his backpack and rezipped it, now empty. Carried his backpack with him down the hall in his stocking feet.

"Mom? I'm going out for a while." He had to get out of this shadowy, silent house that housed so many old, bad memories. His mom looked up blandly, still sprawled on her bed with her photocopied journal articles.

"Is there any coffee?" She asked, eyebrows knitting together, not looking up.

Reid sighed. "I'll make some before I go out."

"Thanks, honey."

"I'm taking the bus to the Blockbuster on Trafalgar street. I might stop in at the Dunkin' Donuts on the way back, get a cruller."

Diana Reid made a noise that sounded like "Mmm."

"_Mom?" _He laced exasperation into his voice. She looked up then.

"I heard you, Spencer. You're going to the movie store to get a movie. Then the donut place. I get it. You're not exactly going to the moon."

"I might get a double chocolate glazed, too." He spit the words out. She narrowed her eyes at him.

"What do you want from me, Spencer?" She looked genuinely confused, genuinely put out. He wanted to scream at her that he wanted her to care that he had been three hours late and god-knows-where in Vegas. He wanted her to tell him he couldn't go to the movie store, that she would drive him, that by the time he got there and picked a movie out and got back it would be full dark out and she didn't want him riding the city bus after dark. He wanted her to ask what he had had for dinner, comment on his sugar consumption. Hell, he wanted her to make him dinner. He wanted to tell her about the blood he had scraped off the wall in the basement, how even after all this time the world seemed to tilt when he saw it, how his gagging over the toilet in the bathroom a few days back had been because he was upset, not sick.

Instead he settled for: "Nothing. I don't want anything. I shouldn't have said anything."

She watched him closely for a few more seconds. "You're getting moody, Spencer. I don't like it. I got very moody before my first psychotic break and-"

He stormed out of her room. He had to get out of this house, and he had to get out _now_. She could make her own fucking coffee. He rammed his feet into his tennis shoes, not bothering to untie the laces. Pulled the hoody Gideon had purchased for him at the airport so many long months ago off his hook by the door and slipped it on. Slipped his house key on around his neck. Shrugged into his backpack. Then he was out, out into the early night, not even bothering to lock the front door. The sun was starting to go down, a bright orange and pink haze on the horizon bleeding to green blue through to royal blue and navy the farther up his eyes wandered. The air smelled electric, almost spicy, the aroma of crazy Las Vegas. The neon streetlamps were buzzing, having flickered to life within the last half hour. Furry moths fluttered and collected in the halos of light under them like mythical creatures.

He ran to his bus stop and sat down on the bench, feet dangling over the asphalt, now washed in pale blue light from the streetlamps. The air was starting to get cool for the evening, nippy and somehow _alive_ and his bazooka joe gum was almost out of flavour. Five minutes later there was a hissing-sighing noise and the bus pulled to a stop, doors flashing open. Reid jumped into the bus, fumbled in his pocket and dropped fifty cents in quarters into the coin slot at the front, waited for the machine to spit out a paper receipt. Good for a return trip for 90 minutes.

He walked tiredly to the back of the bus, collapsed into one of the padded seats and gazed languidly out the finger-print smudged glass at passing houses; lit up orange, some flickering the flashing blue of television. The bus stopped, let someone on. It hiss-hummed back to life again and after a few moments Reid felt a shadow over him. He glanced up, nose wrinkling at the smell of urine and malt liquor. The bum was ageless, dirty, with a matted grey beard.

"Mind if I sit here?" The bum asked, obviously drunk. Except for an old woman with a white metal push cart at the front of the bus, they were alone. Reid motioned the seat with one small hand.

"Go ahead." His voice was flat. The bum sat down, grinning rotted black teeth which reeked of infection. He fished a bottle of something alcholic out of his pocket and took a long drink. Offered the boy a sip. Reid stared at the bottle for a moment, lips curling up. Finally he nodded, as if coming to some personal revelation, accepted the bottle and took a drink, too. The liquor- whiskey- burned like liquid fire and lit up his belly. Reid wiped his mouth with the sleeve cuff of his hooded sweatshirt and handed the bum back his bottle.

"Thanks." His voice was soft. The bum flapped his hand back and forth. Jerked his head at the bottle. "You keep that. You look like you need it more than me."

Reid stared at the bottle. Nodded. Slipped it into the big pocket on the side of his sweatshirt. Wondered, for the briefest of moments, how miserable he had to look that a homeless guy was donating him his drink.

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it. You don't have, like, a buck I can have, do you? To get something to eat?"

Reid inhaled. Fished the dollar in quarters out of his pocket and handed them to the bum. He'd forego his stop at Dunkin' Donuts, have another pair of pop tarts when he got home. The bum smiled again, pocketed the coins.

"Thanks, little man. The name is Larry." He held out a dirty, calloused hand. Reid took it, shook it. His brain was already starting to untangle, falling into a sloshy mess care of the alcohol. He took another gulp, winced. The bum watched him, grinning at his reaction.

"My name is Spencer."

"Spencer? That's nice. That's a nice name. I had a dog named Spencer once."

"Oh yeah?" Reid said blandly, and took another gulp from the bottle. He sincerely doubted this street guy had had a dog named Spencer, but conversation was conversation.

"I have a pig named Spencer," Reid said, grinning wickedly, and started to laugh. The bum laughed too, then wandered down to the front of the bus, apparently finished with the boy who had given him a buck in change. Reid gazed back out the window, smiled when he saw a giant inflatable gorilla hovering over a light up bill-board advertising tires: TWO FOR ONE! Living in Vegas was like being at a county fair 365 days a year.

Reid spared a glance at his watch. Quarter to ten at night. The sky outside was dark black now, smudged with gray light pollution. Reid tugged the pull-cord when he saw the giant metal godzilla with red flashing eyes advertising the new burger place. Looked like a fun place; too bad burgers were made of dead animals. Reid's feet felt numb and disconnected from his body as he ambled off the bus, drunken features limned by the blinking electric circus outside. He swayed, watched the bus pull away with a slow hiss, and traipsed his way past the Porsche car dealership lit up with glaring white spotlights and hemmed in by helium balloons and strings of multi-coloured vinyl pennants emblazoned with the porsche logo, flapping gently in the evening wind. He fell over once, skinned his bare knee just hard enough to draw a few beads of blood, hissed and blew air on it, began to giggle. He was seeing double. Got back up, wandered two more blocks, hit the button that would light up the pedestrian cross walk and waited until the cars came to a full stop before sloshing across to the Blockbuster.

A bell over the door jangled as he pushed it open and slunk inside. A mildly dishevelled young man in his early twenties glanced up from the cash register, obviously bored. The inside of Blockbuster, like always, smelled like sugar and new-car and glowed yellow. Reid forced himself to walk carefully, to stop tripping and swaying. He marched over to the horror section, scanned the colorful boxes with over-the-top demons and maniacs on the covers, flipped over a few and scanned the screen caps on the back. Twisted, horrified faces. Karo syrup blood. Reid giggled at the inanity of it all and pulled two movies from the shelves. "The Gate" and some cheese fest called "The Pit" which displayed a drawing of a blond prepubescent kid with a bad haircut holding a teddy bear to his chest. The bear had glowing eyes and in the foreground a pair of female arms reached out of the titular pit, flanked by dangerous yellow eyes. Reid read the cheesy slogan on the box, hovering over the title, voice too-loud.

"Jamie wouldn't kill anyone, unless Teddy told him to!" Reid laughed loudly, smacked his thigh. A young mother, baby strapped to her chest in a carrier, glanced over at this outburst. Reid ignored the look and carried his movie selections to the front counter. Swayed over to the candy cart and snatched up a bag of black Twizzlers licorice whips and added them to his total. Gave the young man with the beady weasel eyes his phone number and waited while the kid rang everything up, expression inscrutable. He handed Reid his movies and candy in a plastic bag with the blockbuster logo on the side. Reid saluted him stupidly with a goofy grin on his face and slumped his way out of the store. The bell jangled again. Time to go home.

* * *

He was half way throuh his second movie, "The Pit" when he started to sober up a bit. The room was spinning. The movie was delightfully stupid. The carpet and his bed were littered with popcorn kernels. He'd come home, made his mother her precious coffee and carried it in to her, sloshing half of it over the side on the long walk down the hall. She had thanked him, looked at him for a second, appraising him.

"Spencer, are you _drunk_?!"

"No, _Ma_. I took some _Dramamine._ For the... nausea. _You know how that shit affects me_." Reid forced himself to keep a straight face. Diana Reid watched him closely, finally nodded, decided to go along with his bullshit story.

"Yes, well... thank you for the coffee, Spencer." What else could she really say, while remaining blissfully detached from her role as "mother"? Reid had nodded at her then (feeling strangely like a dashboard terrier bobblehead), gone back to the kitchen and put a pan of Jiffy Pop on the stove element. He forgot about it in the bathroom, tracing the shape of his face with Irish Spring soap in the mirror and remembered only when the fire alarm began to blare. He ran back to the kitchen, saw that the Jiffy Pop was on fire and smoking black. He pulled the jiffy pop off the element, dumped it in the kitchen sink, turned the water on full blast. The fire alarm had coaxed Diana Reid from her bedroom. She entered the kitchen waving at the smoke, coughing.

"Jesus Christ, Spencer! Are you trying to burn down the house?!"

Reid stared at her, forced himself not to laugh. He had an almost itchy urge to tell her: _yes, why in fact, that was precisely what I was trying to do, Mommy. Burn down the house._ Wasn't that the name of a song? Burning down the house? He couldn't help himself, a laugh wheezed out of him.

"This isn't funny, Spencer. Have you ever seen people on a burn ward?"

At that, he wheezed another bubble of laughter. Bit his lip to stop. His mother was staring at him with oily eyes. She was displeased.

"I'm sorry, Mom. The Dramamine, you know. Has made me loopy. I was washing up in the bathroom, forgot about it." He turned the fan over the stove on, opened the kitchen door that led off to their tiny plot of a "back yard" and fanned the air ineffectually.

"I won't burn the next batch. _Promise_." It was so, so hard to keep that moronic smile off his face.

She made a tsking noise and wandered back to her room. Reid began to sing _Talking Heads_ under his breath. _"We've got a match... watch out, you might get what you're after...cool babies, strange but not a stranger...I'm an ordinary guy... BURNING DOWN THE HOUSE!" _The last part he screamed out as loud as he could. Waited a beat.

"Spencer!" His mother's voice, clipped and entering true anger, yelled down the hall. Reid ignored her, watched his popcorn inflate the tinfoil Jiffy Pop bag, waited until it was done and dumped it into a plastic bowl. He pulled out an unpopped kernel and frowned at it. Positioned it in front of his middle finger, then flicked it through the air. The kernel shot across the kitchen air, hit the sink faucet and clattered into the sink. Reid double checked that the gaslight was off and walked back to his room with his bowl of popcorn, a licorice whip hanging from his mouth like a dead tongue.

He sat in front of his bed on the floor, cross-legged, gazing up at the TV with his bowl of popcorn and his bag of licorice, watching stupid horror antics and savoring the last of his pity-prize whiskey. When the first movie ended he wandered to the bathroom and rinsed out his mouth with Scope. He was sorry the alcohol was gone. He was still hurting, not numb enough. The memory of that splash of dark, dried blood on the basement wall still niggled at him, still bugged him. Had his mother cleaned up the blood? His father? Someone else? He'd never know. Whoever it was, they hadn't done a very thorough job. He got a can of Pepsi from the fridge, returned to his room. It was almost midnight when he realized how much he missed Gideon. He paused the movie, picked up Snoopy and dialed the number for AT&T. Told the operator he wanted to make a collect call and gave her Gideon's home phone number. She thanked him, connected his call and he heard the phone ring across the miles. One ring. Two rings. Three. The phone picked up.

"Hello?"

"Gideon? I miss you." He couldn't keep the ache out of his voice. "I miss you so much."

"Reid..." Gideon breathed in. Sighed. "I miss you too, buddy." His voice was full of genuine emotion. He did miss him. Reid knew he did.

Then: "Are you drunk, Reid?"

"I can't lie to you. A bum on the bus gave me his bottle of whiskey. So yeah. I guess I am pretty drunk right now." A small giggle. It hung in the air by itself. Lonely. Sad. He heard Gideon sigh again on the phone.

"Reid, I don't like you drinking."

"I know. But he gave it to me. I didn't ask for it."

"You didn't have to take it."

Reid considered this. "I did! I did! I came home three hours late today. Mom didn't even notice, and when I told her, she didn't even _care_!"

"Reid, is you mom still taking her medication?" Gideon's voice was alert, concerned.

"Yeah. I make sure she does. It's not that. She has always been like this. It's like I am some fucking middle aged lodger that lives with her who just happens to be really fucking short. If I try to talk to her about _before_, or things I feel bad about, she doesn't want to hear it. She says I am trying to guilt trip her, even though I'm not. I was doing laundry earlier, down in the basement and on the wall was a little smudge of black. You know what it was, Gideon? It was my fucking blood; whoever cleaned up down there missed it. It was my blood spatter, a big loop of blood. Then when I bent down I saw fine droplets, like aerosol spray. Dark red, too. Probably my blood, too. I am going to have to go down there soon with a bucket and pinesol and wash it off the walls because I don't like knowing my blood is dead and sitting on the walls, just... _staring out into the blackness of the basement all night, my dead mitochondria trapped in the wall and just... sitting there, in the dark basement_." He was rambling.

He was drunk.

He was hurting.

Gideon let him vent. Gideon only made carefully placed "Mmm" noises every so often to show he was listening. But he let his boy vent.

"She doesn't care what I do! She never asks me how my day at school is! If I get an A she doesn't act excited. She talks to me about her work, and I like that she treats me like an adult most of the time, I mean, I would hate to be _babied_, I don't want to be _babied_... but sometimes I wish she would just take the initiative and ask how I am, ask about my day. Want to know where I am. Care that I am going out at quarter to ten to rent horror movies on a school night. Or care that all I ate for dinner were chocolate pop tarts and soda and orange juice and purple fucking grape bazooka joe bubble gum. I know, I sound stupid. What kid doesn't want this sort of freedom, right?"

Reid was silent. Waited for Gideon to tell him he was being stupid. Gideon didn't.

"Reid, you're still a little boy. A marvelously intelligent, compassionate and self-sufficient little boy, but still a kid. You want your Mom to be your Mom, to be the grown-up and for you to be the self-sufficient kid, but within reason. There is nothing stupid about that at all."

Reid listened to his foster father's words, nodding. "Yeah," he whispered.

"I like...I liked when I was with you, if I was sad how you just seemed to know, and you'd come watch TV with me, or read me poetry or we'd play games or you'd make me hot chocolate in the middle of the night if I couldn't sleep and was sad, we'd sit around playing Chess or Go or with my radio controlled truck. I miss that. Mom never plays games with me. She says spending my money on video games is a waste of money. All she does is put down what I like, unless it is what she wants me to be doing, and I like doing academic things, I do, but sometimes I just want to do stupid, regular-kid things too, you know? Sometimes I just want to do stupid things."

"I know. Reid, your mom has a lot of problems. You know that. And your living situation is not ideal..." Gideon was silent for a moment, carefully chosing his words. "But she does love you, if it helps at all to hear it. I talked to her before you went home. She spent maybe half an hour debating paint colours for your room with me before deciding to get that pale green. You're right, I don't think she really sees you as a little kid, but I am not sure she knows what a little kid is. But I know she loves you. And I know you want boundaries, you want to be able to relax a bit. You want her to know you're hurting. That you're mad at her. Even though she is sick, you're mad she couldn't protect you."

"_Yes_."

"I think she knows you're mad, Reid. I think she knows it, and doesn't know what to do about it, so she gets offended or deflects. She doesn't know how to even feel the guilt she is feeling, so she buries it, and gets mad at you if you bring it up. Because the guilt is eating away at her, I think, just like your scary memories and your sadness sometimes eat away at you."

Reid considered this. "Maybe."

"You're still my boy, though, right?"

Reid nodded. "_Yeah_."

"And I am going to see you soon? How soon?" Gideon coaxed. Reid didn't have to glance over at the Ninja Turtles calendar pinned over his desk on a nail. He did anyway.

"Eight days."

"Eight days, that's right. And Danny is going to see you, too. And I know he is really excited. We're going to have a great time, you're going to show us Vegas?"

"Yeah. For the whole weekend, right?"

"For the whole weekend," Gideon confirmed, and Reid could hear the smile in his voice.

"I want you to do some things for me, Reid. I know you're all the way in Vegas, but I am going to ask you every time I talk to you, and I know you can't lie to me."

"What?"

"I consider you my kid, now. My boy. And I know you don't live in Virginia with me anymore, but I am going to see you as often as I can. And even if you were living here with me, I would have had to go back to work and you would have been with a nanny or somebody else anyway most of the time, when I was on cases."

"Yeah," Reid said sadly.

"At least this way you're with your Mom. And as funny as she is in a lot of ways, she does love you, buddy. I don't like this drinking thing you have gotten into. I don't want you drinking anymore, Reid. It's not a good way to handle pain."

"Yeah."

"I'm serious, Reid. I am going to phone you every night, if I possibly can. At 10 your time, right before you go to bed. And I am going to ask you about your day, and I am going to be mighty disappointed if I hear you've been drinking."

Reid gulped. Nodded. "Okay," He said. He was smiling, despite himself.

"And that's nother thing. I don't want you out by yourself after the sun goes down. You're too young. Unless you're getting a ride home from somewhere, I don't want you out."

"Okay."

"Let's say in the house by 7?"

"The sun goes down after 7 this time of year."

"7 is late enough. If you want candy, or a movie, or something I want you to plan it out so you get it earlier in the day. Home by 7. In bed by... let's say 10:30 on school nights."

"10:30? Sheesh. It's past 10:30 now and I still have half a movie to watch!"

"We'll start it tomorrow, okay?"

Reid smiled. "Yeah. Okay."

"And as for your diet. One can of soda pop is enough for a day. You don't need to be living off sugar."

"One can only?"

"One can only."

"That's virtually nothing!" Reid whined, but Gideon could tell he wasn't really upset. His voice was lighter, less plagued by sadness, less morose.

"You're going to floss and brush every morning after breakfast. And every night, before bed. You can do it in the shower if that saves time. And you're going to shower every single day. Scrub behind those big ears of yours."

"Floss _every_ day?" Reid whined. He hated flossing. It was so much easier to just... not do anything. He piloted his tongue over his front teeth, noticed the gummy film of plaque.

"Yeah. And I want you to eat something substantial for lunch. And for dinner. Something like a bowl of soup, or a sandwich. Not pop tarts. Not donuts."

"_Fiiiiine_."

Gideon ran through the rules with Reid again. Reid asked what he would get in return.

"You want an allowance?"

"Yeah!"

"10 bucks a week, if you do that stuff every day."

"Okay. I'll try. Gideon?"

"Yeah?"

"If I am hung over tomorrow, do I have to go to school?" Reid was starting to feel a little more clear headed, but with that clarity came the sensation of nausea, and the prickly beginnings of a hangover headache.

"Jesus, Reid, do you realize how bizarre that sentence is? No. If you feel really crappy, you don't have to go to school. But I don't want to hear about you missing any more school for something as stupid as drinking, okay?"

"Yeah."

"And if you stay home tomorrow, you're not playing video games. You're not going to reward yourself for doing stupid shit like drinking."

_"What?!"_

"You heard me. Go to school tomorrow and you can play video games when you get home. Stay home and the Nintendo stays off all day. And whatever other video game console you told me about last week." Gideon was using his mock-stern voice. Reid sighed. Mumbled something Gideon chose to ignore.

"Remember, I am going to phone you every night, and say goodnight, and ask about your day, and see if you've held up your end of this deal. What time am I gonna be phoning?"

"Ten oh clock. Every night. Unless you absolutely can't get to a phone because of a case."

"Right. And you're going to be home, and sober, and ready to take my long-distance call, right?"

Reid grinned. Appreciated Gideon for chewing him out, wanted to tell him just how much he loved being lectured by someone who cared enough about him to think up rules like this. He giggled. "Yeah."

"Good. So, Reid. How... how was your day?"

Reid smiled, pulled the cord trailing out of Snoopy's head as far as it would go and climbed onto his bed. Took a deep breath and launched into a descriptive summary of his day. Gideon listened, occasionally asking for more details. But mostly, Spencer Reid talked. At one point, he got up and popped another piece of grape gum in his mouth, recited a poem he'd learned just the day before, told Gideon about a bully in the eleventh grade who sold pot out of the back of his pale blue gremlin in the parking lot at lunch, about the school counsellor Mr. Hoffman who was a burnout from the sixties and still used terms like "groovy" and "can you dig it?" when talking to students. Gideon chuckled softly. It was past 1 in the morning when Gideon started to wrap up the conversation, promising Reid he would phone again tomorrow, encouraging him to get some shut eye and drink some water to stave off whatever hangover was lying in wait.

"I love you, Gideon." Reid said simply.

"I love you, too, pal. We'll talk again tomorrow. Well, today, technically. Have sweet dreams, now."

Reid disconnected and put Snoopy back on top of his doghouse. He couldn't stop grinning. He got up, eyes glassy from fatigue and wandered out into the hallway. Walked slowly to the kitchen, pulled a glass out of the cupboard and filled himself a glass of water from the tap. He drank quickly, sloshing most of the water down his cheek, his chin and the front of his t-shirt. He put the cup in the sink drainer and turned the kitchen light out, wandered back down the hall and into his mom's room. She was asleep with her papers spread around her, a thin trail of drool pooling on the side of her cheek. Reid watched her sleep, finally managed a smile. He went to the living room, came back with a hideous brown and orange and yellow afghan throw from the back of the sofa and draped it over her still form. She stirred slightly in her sleep. Did not wake.

"_I love you Mom. I do_." His voice was the gentle shadow of a whisper.

She murmured something in her sleep, something he couldn't make out. He blinked. Bent, and kissed her on the cheek. Stood and switched out her lights. Went back to his room.

He found what he was looking for in the back of his closet. The old, moth-eaten electric-orange Moogie his mother had made him years ago. Moogie, with his shell pink and ugly blue ears. Moogie, with his bulbous crossed-eyes and gaping, slightly insane mouth. Her one and only real attempt at being maternal. He pulled it down from its hiding place under the dusty bare lightbulb, smelled it. A parade of memories shot back at him like a deck of playing cards tumbling to the floor. Moogie smelled of home and lime jello and his mom; some ancient, comforting mom smell, an almost primordial smell, hardwired into his brain that was impossible to put into words. It was a smell he must have first connected to his mother in the womb. Next to where Moogie had rested on the white wire shelf was Jason, the plush dinosaur Gideon had purchased for him back in Virginia. Reid cradled Moogie to his chest, Jason to his chest and returned to sit in front of the television with his two stuffed animals.

Soon, he would be too old for them... but not tonight.

Tonight, he was the perfect age for them.

**-FIN-**

* * *

**So, that's it.** It is hard to end a story like this, there is never a "good" ending place, but I figured this was a good place, with Reid somewhat resolved to living at home. I tried to capture the sense that, even though things are better for Reid than they ever were before, he still has to be, more or less, a little adult (it was a sense I got from the show, from "flashback" scenes of his childhood and it is a position I still maintain). I know readers probably wanted a "happy" ending with Reid living with Gideon and William Reid being excoriated by Hotch on the witness stand in court, but in real life, like I have mentioned before, child abusers are very rarely punished and even fewer had to go to court 23 years ago, back in 1990, when the majority of this story takes place.

**Author's Note:**

Child abuse is a huge problem in our society. The wounds suffered by abused kids stay with suvivors as psychic scar tissue for the rest of their natural lives. They may move on, but those painful memories are still there. Those are the lucky survivors. The victims of abuse, the ones who don't make it, end up in jail, or dead by suicide, or on skid row snorting crack or shooting up heroin. I know people like this, who, even in their fifties are so haunted by their pasts that they are chasing escape at any cost.

Society still, for the most part, neglects the abused. The amount of money put into child abuse prevention, awareness and treatment, versus that which is spent on locking juvenile offenders and adult criminals up in penal institutions, is a joke. Every year in the US 3.3 _million _child abuse reports are made involving some _6 million children_. As of 2010, the number of children in the US who were killed as a result of severe physical abuse was five per day. Five children _every single day_, murdered, in the US alone. Countless more suffer from severe, debiliating injuries that leave them scarred and handicapped for life. Then there are those kids who have it "easier", and are abused, but not so badly their lives are put in danger. Most of these cases are never reported, and the kids involved in them learn to cover their bruises and make up excuses for their black eyes and scratch marks and burns. Add in the cases of child sexual abuse, of extreme and devasting emotional abuse (possibly the most destructive form of child abuse, as it cuts right to the soul of the child and often leaves no physical marks and tends to be seen as "not that bad", even by professionals who should damn well know better) and severe neglect, and you start to realize what a major problem this is.

**RESOURCES**

If this story has inspired one person to get involved in the fight and help kids, I'll be happy. Please see the resource list below. If you are a kid under 18 dealing with abuse, as cliched as it sounds, please know that it is not your fault. I know, I know... everybody says that. But it's true. A lot of kids never tell anyone because they are ashamed or feel responsible or doubt the "severity" of their abuse, or don't want to tattle or get their parents in trouble. If that is you, please keep safe. Stay with friends or other family members as much as possible. Consider phoning a hotline and just talking with a counsellor about your options. Two major hotlines in both Canada and the US do not trace calls, and you can phone from a pay phone. You can also talk to people on line, on the internet, and send emails.

If you need someone to talk to, and you live **in ****Canada** (or if you want to report a case of child abuse) please phone: 1-800-668-6868 or you can also phone the operator and ask for "Zenith 1234" and you will be redirected to a child abuse hotline.

**In the US**, you can phone 1-800-4-A-CHILD

In both the US and Canada, if you are feeling suicidal or experiencing a major crisis, please phone **1-800-SUICIDE **and stay on the phone until somebody answers. You can go to suicidehotlines dot com or hopeline dot com for more information on varios resources which may be available to you.

Online, there are some good resources, too. childhelp dot org (sorry, does not let me link to outside pages) is a major page with information and in Canada you guys can go to kidshelpphone dot ca.

**Other places:** please call your operator and be asked to be connected to your local child protective services department or your national child abuse hotline. You can also google your country and the phrase "child abuse resources" and you should get some information you can use.

If none of that is helpful, or you want to talk, you can always drop me a line by sending mail to me here, on fanfiction dot net and I will try to get back to you.

**BOOKS and MOVIE resources**

The following is a list of movies relating to child abuse and neglect (some of these movies are available in full on youtube) and will probably interest anyone who wants to know more:

For the love of a child (available on youtube as of January 18th, 2013)

Goodnight Mister Tom (available on youtube as of January 18th, 2013)

Song for a Raggy Boy (available on youtube as of January 18th, 2013)

Child of Rage (available on youtube as of January 18th, 2013)

Antwone Fisher (available on youtube as of January 18th, 2013)

Good Will Hunting

The Interrogation of Michael Crowe (concerns trauma, memory and the abuse of power by the police in a famous case, based on a true story- on youtube as of January 18th, 2013)

For the love of Aaron (true story of a boy neglected by his schizophrenic mother, on youtube as of January 18th, 2013)

The heart is deceitful above all things (based on the fiction story by "J.T. LeRoy")

The Boys of St. Vincent (based on a true story, very hard to watch)

Prime Suspect: The Lost Child (on youtube as of January 18th, 2013)

Sybil (1976 TV movie- there is also a 2007 remake, I think the remake is on youtube)

No Child of Mine (1997 tv movie, on youtube as of January 18th, 2013)

Radio Flyer (1992 movie, mostly fantasy, but child abuse is central to the plot. Saw this when I was little, and it has haunted me ever since)

This Boy's Life (1993 movie with Leonardo Di Caprio, on youtube as of January 18th, 2013)

Trapped in Silence (1986 movie)

Bastard out of Carolina (1996 movie, online as of January 18th, 2013)

10 1/2 (disturbing French Canadian movie with French subtitles, 2010)

The Son of the Shark (French movie from 1993, definitely worth watching if you can find it somewhere)

The 400 Blows (French film, 1959)

Mysterious Skin (2004 fiction movie, quite disturbing)

Fireflies in the Garden (2008 film, it had its moments, though I didn't care for the happy-ever-after ending)

Gardens of the Night (2008 movie)

It's Not Me, I swear (2008 French Canadian movie, more about grief and abandonment than abuse, but worth a watch)

Joe the King (1999 movie)

Mockingbird Don't Sing (2003)

**Books**

Mysterious Skin by Scott Heim (fiction)

Bastard out of Carolina by Dorothy Allison (fiction)

Nobody's Child by Michael Seed (autobiography)

A Child called It by David Pelzer (autobiography)

The Lost Boy by David Pelzer (autobiography)

Sickened by Julie Gregory (autobiography)

The Butterfly Garden: Surviving Childhood on the Run with One of America's Most Wanted by Chip St. Clair (autobiography)

Cry Out by P.E. Quinn (autobiography)

The Heart is Deceitful Above All Things by J.T. LeRoy (fiction)

I Cried, You Didn't Listen: A Survivor's Expose of the California Youth Authority by Dwight Edgar Abbott and Jack Carter (autobiography)

They Cage the Animals at Night by Jennings Michael Burch (autobiography)

One Child by Torey L. Hayden (true story)

Murphy's Boy by Torey L. Hayden (true story)

Ghost Girl by Torey L. Hayden

_**Thanks for reading, guys.**_


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